Masquerade
by Sardonic Kender Smile
Summary: Caelin is hosting the latest meeting of the Lycian League, and celebrating with a masquerade ball...but how is one to distinguish anybody amidst such disguises? For Xirysa's Senses Challenge. /Chapter Five: "I don't want a prince, Kent."/
1. Decadent Deception

_A/N: As stated in the summary, this is for Xirysa's Senses Challenge. Why am I doing this, you may ask…? _

_BECAUSE I'M AN IDIOT! _

_I originally wasn't going to enter this. And then, magically, about two days ago, an idea hit me like a brick in the face. And it hurt just as much when I realized that I would have to write five chapters in, essentially, two weeks—along with dealing with marching band, club meetings, and all the crazy-hard classes I took because I'm a dork and I ENJOY being tested on medieval architecture and strains of the Plague. So I'm never going to meet the deadline for this, but whatever. Dying in a valiant attempt is better than not trying, I guess._

_Anyways…yeah. Here it is. Five chapters, each a different sense, each a different pairing. I decided to set the scene at a masquerade ball, because I find that awesome. Although, I would ask the reader to please disregard the fact that even with masks and costumes, Fire Emblem characters could be easily distinguished by the color of their hair…we'll just pretend like it's the real world and that everyone is so used to these crazy hair colors that they don't use them to tell people apart. xD_

* * *

_**Sense:**__ Sight_

_**Rating:**__ K+_

_**Pairing:**__ EliwoodxNinian_

_**Decadent Deception**_

Eliwood half-wished that he could have seen Lyn's face when the Lycian League decided on the newest location for their gathering.

Lycia's government was a good one, in his opinion. It combined the simple and traditional aspects of monarchy—in the form of appointing a marquess to each region, who was the highest power—with some semblance of democracy: in which every noble would periodically meet, and discuss or vote on issues regarding the welfare of the country as a whole. Of course, the downside to this was that the Lycian nations were rather widespread…and it was always quite an ordeal to organize a get-together for representatives from everywhere. To encourage the concepts of fairness and equality, these meetings were held in a different region every time—Pherae had been four years ago, Khathelet had been the previous year…

…and this year, it was Caelin's turn.

These meetings usually lasted at least a fortnight—with debates and conventions during the day, and entertainment at night to ease the tension of the day's disagreements. Needless to say, it was a lot of pressure on the host…or hostess, in this case.

However, although it was only the first night, things seemed to be going well. Most of the guests had arrived, and the night's event was something special: a masquerade ball. Eliwood had been pleased to see Ninian's habitually melancholic face light up when he told her the news—she had seemed happy a lot, as of late. He liked that joyful glow in her eyes...

He saw it earlier than evening as they readied themselves for the dance in their chamber, noted how her lips parted to laugh at him when he changed into his costume—a royal purple tunic, combined with jet-black boots, gloves, mask, and embroidered cape. It was easily the gaudiest thing he'd ever had to wear…and if Ninian was laughing, he must have looked quite ridiculous indeed…

"Is it really that funny?" he had asked her.

Her mouth was trembling as she tried to compress her smile, her eyes were merry. "No, my lord…it's just…I've never seen you in purple!"

"It's not my color of choice," Eliwood commented dryly, looking down at his outfit. The dark silk glistened in the light, almost as if mocking him…the tailor had insisted that such a shade would suit his young lord, and although Eliwood had surrendered his trust to the man, he still wasn't quite happy about the idea. On the bright side, he was sure that nobody would recognize him in a color that he never wore.

Ninian stood up, a slow and fluid motion. Her simple white gown, which she had worn on their journey to Caelin, swirled about her legs as she walked to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. He didn't see her smile—he just saw _beautiful_, a concept, a _fact_.

"You look very handsome, my lord," she murmured, and Eliwood grinned as he slid his arms around her waist.

"Well, thank you. Where is _your _costume, now, so that I might return the compliment twofold?"

Her smile had widened. She had detached herself from his arms.

Eliwood now stood in the doorway of the ballroom, beneath the great arch that could be closed off only by its huge, oaken double-doors. The room he was about to enter was flooded with light, given off by hundreds of candles flickering up on chandeliers and reflecting off of the glass crystals ornamenting their golden arms. The walls were decorated with tapestries of red and gold, although it was green and gold—the colors of Caelin—that covered the tables. Dozens of people were engaged in elegant dances on the polished floor…and he could recognize none of them. Everyone seemed to be wearing a different color, a different material, each brighter and more outrageous than the last. Masks were decorated with feathers, horns, beads, and colored paper…there was even one with _antlers_! Eliwood felt his head spin at the sight of so many people, magically transformed into grandly grotesque figures, faceless and unidentifiable even in the light.

Which one was Ninian?

She hadn't told him what she would be wearing. He didn't know what to search for. She had, in fact, readied herself for the ball in Florina's chamber. When Eliwood had reached after her as she walked out the door of their own, asking why she was switching rooms to change, she merely half-turned back and shot him a smile. _The _smile.

He had learned early on in their marriage that Ninian's enigmatic nature was far more detailed than a façade to hide her dragon heritage. She was a woman, after all—and, like all women, she seemed to have a secret love of…secrets. She always smiled that small, delectably puckish smile whenever she had one that she was keeping from him. She would never fail to reveal it to him later, of course…but that mysterious curve of her lips, something that only wives seemed to know how to form, let him know that he was going to have to wait for a while.

She wanted her costume to be a surprise, she had said. Her garnet eyes were as stunning as usual, wide and innocent despite that secretive gleam within them…no, not secretive, it was sheer crimson _impishness._ She wanted him to guess which masked lady she was…the challenge hung in the air, implied even if she never spoke it: _If you can._

As Eliwood stood in the doorway, he tried to guess which shade he should train his eyes to search for. Ice blue, her favorite color? Scarlet, like her eyes? White, perhaps…a testament to her everlasting innocence, the sweet soul that his own soul loved so much?

There were a lot of colors, however—it would be hard to focus on just one. They all seemed to blur together as the couples danced, skirts and capes flying out, partners being switched mid-twirl and new combinations of colors forming constantly. Morphing, shifting, blending….

It seemed that even the music had colors to share, diffusing out like tinted smoke and collecting near the high, domed ceiling of the ballroom. Eliwood wasn't sure where such a strange thought had sprung from…perhaps his tactician had planted it there, long ago. She had been able to see the colors of music, or so she said—something that he had found quite curious. Back in the war, during the black, fire-lit nights that his company could use to relax, Nils would take out his flute and Eliwood's tactician would lean in close to whisper to him what she saw as the boy played: "White…robin's-egg-blue…yellow…oh, I don't even _know _the name for that color!"

That was how he felt, Eliwood decided, glancing towards the hired musicians in the corner. He didn't know the name of what he saw, or if he could ever begin to describe it, but it was _there. _

Now, if only he could spot Ninian…

He ventured into the ballroom, watching as masked pairs of people circled around him in a gliding waltz. The vibrant skirts of the noble ladies all bloomed out as they twirled around, making him feel as if he was in a garden of spinning satin flowers. He felt jealousy rise up in his chest and hoped that Ninian was not one of them, dancing with another man. It was only common politeness to dance with everyone, of course, but…he fancied that his vision was laced in green nonetheless.

Suddenly he spied a small group of women, gathered by one of the large, dark windows. They spoke to each other as if they were friends, as if they knew each other already, and Eliwood took a few steps towards them in the hopes that he could recognize and know them, too.

One, a head taller than the rest, wore a gown the deep, rich color of wet soil. It was a simple thing, but for the gold brocade around the hem, and it matched her rather equine mask—which was the same calming color, but for a patch of white on the brow: the star marking of a horse. The second woman was but a slip of a girl, dressed in gauzy, flowing white skirts. Her mask was that of a pegasus, as pale as new-fallen snow, which sported soft, white feathers from either side like an elegant pair of wings. The third woman…well, for some reason, she appeared very different from the first two. She seemed _darker _in manner, as if she was blending in with the ebon sky that the window displayed—and it was not just because of her sable velvet dress. Her mask was a creature Eliwood was sure he had never seen, yet stirred somewhere deep in his memory…like the mask of the second woman, hers was decorated with feathers—only these were jet-black. The rest of the mask was comprised of sequins and beads the color of pitch, which sparkled in the light of the chandeliers like the scales of a fish or serpent.

How odd. She seemed the most enchanting of the three, but Eliwood had never seen Ninian wear black…so...

A group of people dressed as cats suddenly bustled past Eliwood, obscuring his view. He leaned from side to side impatiently, trying to catch another glimpse of the group of women, desperate for some sort of clue.

When the crowd dispersed, the women were gone.

Eliwood chewed the inside of his cheek in thought and frustration, keeping his gaze on the window that they were standing before mere moments ago. It didn't seem to be enough that everyone was wearing strange clothes and hiding their faces…they were also moving around! Would they ever stand still long enough to give Eliwood enough time to study them?

"Oh no, not the 'thinking face'," a voice said sourly from behind him. "It must be you, Eliwood—I'd know that look anywhere."

Eliwood turned to find another man there—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in deep blue velvet with a matching cape. The lower half of his face was visible, and Eliwood could see that his mouth was set in a scowl…one that he had seen many times before at such social events, one that meant that the wearer of such a grim expression was _extremely _irritated at the prospect of dressing up and acting formal…

"Something wrong with my face, Hector?" Eliwood asked with a smirk.

The taller man's lips quirked upwards as well. "Besides the usual? You look like you're kind-of lost. Is anything the matter?"

"I'm trying to find Ninian," Eliwood murmured. He scanned the crowds again, searching…

"What? Did she run away from you?"

"No!" Eliwood retorted. "She just…didn't show me what her dress looks like. So I don't know which one she is."

"No clues, eh?" Hector guessed with a chuckle.

"None whatsoever," muttered Eliwood. Two couples spun by in their dance—he watched the women closely. How well did they spin? How light were they on their feet? The neckline on the dress of one of them was cut quite low, exposing her shoulders, and Eliwood focused on her skin. No…he knew the color of Ninian's skin, the light blue veins in her neck, the contour of her shoulders. This woman was not her.

Hector was still laughing at him. Eliwood flicked an annoyed glance in his fellow marquess' direction.

"Well, what about you?" he asked. "Where's _your _lovely wife-to-be?"

"Florina? She went to go talk to some of her friends." Hector pointed across the room to three women, walking to the table full of sweetmeats and wine. Eliwood followed his gaze to see…the woman in white, with the pegasus mask. The other two—in brown and black—were with her. Ah, he should have known! That tiny, fragile lady…it was Florina! And Ninian was good friends with Florina…perhaps she was one of the other two women accompanying her!

"Please," Eliwood whispered an absentminded prayer to Saint Elimine and hurried towards them, leaving Hector behind and completely forgotten.

"Hey! Eliwood? Where are you—oh, blast, never mind."

The lord of Pherae was only halfway to the women before he saw them nod at each other—polite goodbyes, coupled with warm smiles. He could do nothing but watch as the three went their separate ways: Florina staying by the table, the enchanting lady in black disappearing off into the crowd, and the poised woman in brown walking towards the door. She was the closest one, and she seemed very familiar, so Eliwood set off after her. He watched the dark silk of her gown shimmer as it caught the light, he hurried his steps to reach her more quickly…

And yet, there was a strange pang of doubt in his heart. This woman seemed too tall to be Ninian, for one thing. She walked upright, with strength and confidence—almost more of a strut than a walk. He had never seen Ninian seem to bold, so comfortable with herself. In fact, he had only met one woman that remarkable…

"Lyndis?" Eliwood asked, and the damsel in brown stopped in her tracks.

She turned around slowly, and he could sense her studying him. Her mask quivered, almost imperceptibly, as she moved her face to look him up and down. He could see her check his posture, his stance, his doubtlessly hesitant smile. Finally the full lips beneath the edge of her mask turned up as well, matching his gesture.

"Hello, Eliwood."

"Lyn, you look beautiful," he said, grinning with relief as he closed the formal distance between them. "I don't often get to see you wear a dress."

The princess of Caelin scowled down at her earth-colored skirts. "I really hate this sort of thing, you know."

"I know. But it suits you." _Almost as much as it suits Ninian. _Eliwood laughed slightly as he asked her, "Would you, by any chance, know how I might identify my wife in such a crowd? She didn't tell me what she would be wearing, and—"

Eliwood cut himself off as Lyn's friendly smile morphed into that cursed, womanly smirk. So she knew—Ninian or Florina had probably told her about the little game that his marchioness had set up.

"Lyndis…" he began beseechingly, but she shook her head and pressed her lips tightly together.

"No way, Eliwood! You have to find her on your own—that's the fun of this whole event, don't you know? _I _sure won't spoil this evening."

With that, the Sacaean excused herself and glided out of the ballroom, into the hallway, leaving Eliwood with nothing but the frown on his face and a newfound dislike of mysteries. He had to admit that the idea of finding Ninian himself was exciting, but…he was growing impatient. He should be dancing, it was required of him as a noble, and he wanted her as his partner. With his mouth still set in a grim line, he set off in search of the woman in black—his last lead.

At first, there were too many people around him to see anything well. She was not in the crowd he had just been enveloped by. He fought his way back out, still seeking…_She doesn't appear to be on the dance floor, she isn't with the group that is sitting down, she hasn't gone back to Florina…_

That's when he spotted her. She was walking towards the wall…her steps were so even, her form so lissome...she swayed slightly—unconsciously—with the music, entranced by it, as if it was forcing her to move. Eliwood felt his heart speed up. _It must be her! It _must _be!_

She seemed to be surveying the room just as he was, looking for somebody. She was facing away from him; he took a step towards her.

She turned then, gracefully, purely and naturally elegant. That twist from the middle only accentuated the feminine curve of her waist, the shape of her hips. Eliwood knew those fluid movements; he could feel his fingers tingle as he remembered tracing the lines of that woman himself. There was no question within his mind as to her identity as he made his way towards her, a sense of triumph lengthening his strides. Whoever had presumed that one needed to see a face to recognize a person was utterly, laughably wrong. That erring philosopher had probably only looked, throughout his whole life—only looked, never _saw. _

The black-clad woman finally caught sight of him, and watched him through the eyes of her mask until he finally caught up to her and slipped behind her.

"Ninian," he murmured discreetly into her ear.

The woman smiled very slightly, the barest indication that she held a secret, trembling in her breast, ready to be laughed away into nonexistence. "You have found me, my lord."

"I should say it took me long enough." Not caring who saw, disregarding the fact that everyone's identity was supposed to be a secret, he wrapped his arms gently around her waist—a testament to the fact that he knew her, and that they were together, and that she was his.

"If I might be honest…" Ninian ventured softly, hesitantly. She did not continue, but Eliwood kept his gaze upon her until she opened her mouth again. "I did not think you _would _recognize me, my lord."

"Truly?" Eliwood asked in surprise. "I'll admit that it was hard at first…these masks just make things difficult, and I have never seen you wear black…but…Ninian? Please, look at me."

He removed his arms from her waist and took a step forward so that he was standing by her side. Shooting her a smile, he cupped her pale, sharp chin in his hand and tilted her face upwards. "Ninian…of _course _I recognized you. No matter how you look, I would know you for you. Surely you understand that our love does not rely on physical appearances."

Of course. Because her true physical appearance was that of a giant, icy, winged serpent. Eliwood could see her brilliant eyes fill with loving wonder at his words. _Oh, Ninian…is it still so hard for you to believe that how you look will never matter to me?_

"I understand," she agreed in a whisper, "my lord Eliwood…"

The young noble's smile only widened. His eyes once more skimmed the glimmering beads on her mask, the sleek back feathers…and, most importantly, where the mask _ended_: on the bridge of her nose, leaving her lips exposed. He parted his own lips and leaned down towards her…

She stopped him by touching her hand to his mouth, her shoulders hunching up in a wince of fright. "Oh, my lord! Please…not here, where e-everyone can see--!"

"See _what_?" Eliwood asked with a laugh. "They do not know who we are. They have no idea. All they shall see are two costumes, two faceless shapes."

"I see a face," Ninian whispered in contradiction, her fingertips shifting from his mouth to graze the surface of his mask. "It is a strange face…but it is not strange to _me_."

"And that's exactly what I see as well." Eliwood covered her hand with his own. "Now, if you don't mind, I think we both have had our eyes open for far too long."

Ninian grasped the front of his tunic to pull herself closer, and Eliwood didn't have to see her face to know that she had agreed. The argument was won. He watched her for just another moment—nothing the rosy blush staining her skin just below her mask, the way her lips trembled as she waited for the weight of his own—before he closed his own eyes and kissed her tenderly. For a moment there was nothing but blackness, and the sweet sensation of Ninian's mouth…and then, from across the ballroom, somebody shrieked.

"ERK, YOU SPILLED PUNCH ALL OVER MY DRESS!"

Eliwood's eyes flew back open.

* * *

_A/N: As you can tell, each chapter will lead into the next—these are all connected stories. And the next chapter will be, quite obviously, sound xD. _

_In case you also couldn't tell, I had way too much fun with the colors in this chapter. Hooray for synonyms. Also…you guys didn't think I'd be so shallow as to assign the characters costumes randomly, did you? xD Clearly drawing inspiration from Edgar Allen Poe's __The Masque of Red Death__ (aka the BEST SHORT STORY EVER), I used colors as symbolism. Ninian is black, essentially, to represent elegance and mystery (and, to a much more unrelated extent, death. She dies in the game, she is freed from death in the game, and if she chooses to live with Eliwood at the end, her fate is an early death. She has to live with the fact that her days are numbered). Eliwood wears a bit of black, too, because he's wrapped up in that mystery and early-death-fate of hers…the purple he wears represents his royal status, along with his personality: the blend of red (passion and energy) and blue (clear-headedness). Hector is dark blue: representing loyalty, power, stability, and masculinity. Lyn is brown: steadfastness, simplicity, dependability, friendliness. Florina is white: innocence, purity, the color of snow. Kender is: way too excited about color therapy. I'll stop now._

_So, I was trying to achieve the sense of sight without using words like "saw" and "sight" too much, relying purely on description and the like…I need to know if I pulled that off correctly, or if it sounded forced…any thoughts would be greatly appreciated! _


	2. Sweeter Silence

_A/N: Hmm. This chapter was a challenge. Perhaps hearing is the hardest sense for me to write…I got desperate, actually, and had to keep bringing in the music. That's what I do at dances, anyway…periodically stop and concentrate on the music (although I'm not opposed to big groups of people, like Erk is…I'm just a band geek). I hope it doesn't sound too much like __Love Songs__…I'm using the same characters and everything…oops! Anyways…here's chapter two. _

* * *

_**Sense: **__Hearing_

_**Rating: **__T. For Matthew's pranks._

_**Pairing: **__ErkxPriscilla, one-sided ErkxSerra. And Sain, who doesn't count._

_**Sweeter Silence**_

"ERK, YOU SPILLED PUNCH ALL OVER MY DRESS!"

Elimine...that voice. He hadn't realized exactly how deeply it had been burned into his ears, into his mind; he hadn't realized exactly how quickly he would be able to recall it; he hadn't realized exactly how much he _despised _it until this moment.

Everything had seemed to move in a second, in an absolute blur: one minute Erk had been walking with a glass of punch in his hand, and the next there was a flash of red, a high-pitched squeak of surprise, a body thudding against his own, a slosh as his punch flew out of his glass…

Erk had winced, waiting for the splattering impact of liquid meeting the polished stone floors, but that moment never arrived. What arrived instead was a muted _splash!_, a dark stain on a mass of red satin, and a keening shriek that made his ears ring and his blood freeze in his veins.

"…S-Serra?" the young mage gasped, standing paralyzed, his cup still tilted precariously in his hand and leaking his remaining drops of punch onto the floor: _Plip, plip, plip._

The girl in question let out a growl of rage—letting Erk know that it was indeed the cleric that still frequented his nightmares. "Uhg! Of _course _it's me, you big dummy! And look what you've done to my dress!"

Her voice got steadily more shrill and hysterical as she spoke, and Erk found himself wincing. "Serra…er…I'm so sorry…"

_What is she doing here? What is SHE doing HERE?!_

"You had better be sorry!" the girl ranted. "Why, I oughta—"

"Serra." Erk interrupted her quietly before she could make an absolute scene—masked guests at the ball were already looking their way. He wanted to scream something despairing, asking why she was at a noble's gathering, but the rational part of his brain took over with an even better question:

"Serra…how did you know it was me?"

"Please." The girl sounded infuriatingly haughty—and even though she was a good inch or two shorter than Erk, she still somehow found a way to glare _down _at him from the holes in her bright red mask. "You're obviously the only one who would wear a color as boring as _grey_!"

Erk could feel his eye twitch beneath his simple charcoal-colored mask. Blast. She had discovered him. He was _disguised_, for Elimine's sake, and she _still _managed to find him…and to ruin his evening, on top of that. Erk was overcome with an involuntary wave—well, more like a slight twinge—of self-consciousness as he glanced down at his outfit: a simple, dove-grey tunic and calfskin boots. He originally had a cloak of a darker shade to wear with that, but Lady Louise had taken it away in the fear that he would just put his hood up and sulk in the corner for the whole dance. Of course…even if his own rather simple ensemble seemed predictable to Serra, he had to admit that he could have guessed her from her color, as well—if he hadn't been greeted with the squeaky, nerve-grating timbre of her voice, first.

The Ostian cleric was wearing a gown of the most vivid crimson imaginable, although now a portion of it was stained darker from his spilled punch. Her mask—the same blinding scarlet shade—was vaguely butterfly-shaped, and covered with an unnecessary amount of glittering sequins.

_Elimine…WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO THRUST HER INTO MY LIFE?! _He felt like screaming at the sky. He had thought he was rid of her, now that the war was over…his one consolation at parting from Priscilla had been that he could also part from Serra…and yet, here she was _again!_

"Serra…" he murmured, trying to keep his voice from collapsing into a moan of agony, "This is a ball for the nobles of Lycia. So…what are you doing here?"

"What am _I _doing here?" the healer demanded, pulling herself up to her full (and rather unintimidating) height and giving an indignant sniff. "I, clearly, am the daughter of noble parentage, descended from royalty! I belong here, with the rest of my people!" She spread out her arms, gesturing to the ballroom full of lords and ladies, and her wet gown whispered as it flew out in response to her exaggerated movements.

Erk felt the muscle at the corner of his eye twitch again. He was still hardly aware of the tilted crystal cup in his hand, of the mess he was continuing to make: _Plip, plip, plip. _

"…Right," he muttered to keep her appeased, even as his brain was busy imagining what _actually _happened. He could hear it as well as if he had actually been there in Ostia…Serra's wails, Hector's shouting…

_"It's no fair! How come I can't go to the ball with you?"_

_"It's only for nobles, alright? Now just leave the matter alone!" _

_"I AM a noble! _Obviously _you're just too thick-headed to realize—"_

_"WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?" _

_"Puh-leeeeeease, Lord Hector!" _

_"Hey! Cut it out! Let go of my middle, Serra—you CAN'T COME!" _

_"But Matthew gets to go with you!" _

_"Matthew goes everywhere! That's his job!" _

_"Make it my job! I wanna go!" _

_"No way!" _

_"I WANNA GO!" _

_"You _can_ go—GO AWAY!" _

_"YOU CAN'T KEEP ME AWAY FROM MY TRUE PUBLIC, LORD HECTOR! I AM ROYALTY! I SHALL—" _

And on and on and on. Erk could imagine it all--her voice getting higher and faster and even more incoherent, Hector's exasperated groan as he allowed the cleric to come on the provision that she would shut up, Matthew's cynical laughter ringing through Castle Ostia…

The mage shuddered. _Plip, plip, plip. _

Serra put her hands on her hips, lifted her chin, and demanded, "Anyways, like you said, this is a ball for _Lycian _nobles. So what are _you _doing here?"

As if she had a right to question his position! Erk shot her a look—not quite a glare, but certainly sharp. "If you must know, Lord Pent is acting as the ambassador from Etruria. I am here to accompany him."

"Well, you're still not royalty." Serra flipped a hand in his direction.

_Plip, plip, plip. _

Serra seemed to look down at the cup in his hand: "You're still spilling punch, you know."

Erk's blood was roaring in his ears. _Plip, plip, plip. _

"You know, Erk, you're just a mess. You need to relax for a night—here, come dance with me!"

_CRASH!_

The cup slipped from Erk's hands and shattered on the floor, filling the room with the harsh, high, splintered sound of broken glass. If anybody hadn't been staring at him and Serra before, they certainly were now.

"D-dance?" Erk choked out.

Serra was holding out her russet-gloved hands. "Of course! That's the point of a ball, isn't it?"

"I-I…well…erm, I don't—"

Erk was slowly backing away, his soft new boots making little noise on the stone floors…of course, that did him little good with Serra having him directly in her sights.

"Stop being so silly! Come on, dance with me!"

"B-but I—"

"Don't you know it's rude to refuse a lady?" Serra crossed her arms and huffed angrily.

"Um, a-actually…I…that punch I had was for Lady Louise!" Erk blurted out, setting free the first excuse that came to mind. His words seemed to hit Serra like a blow to the face, breaking her angry expression into one of surprise. Erk seized his chance as a blind man chases after a guiding voice:

"Yes—that's right! For Lady Louise! And now she'll be wondering where I am…so, er, I should go and get her some more! Again, you have my apologies, Serra!"

With that, Erk turned and slid his way into the nearest crowd, shouldering past guests until he was sure that Serra couldn't see him any longer.

"Erk!" she cried, her beseeching call wafting after him…following him…_stalking _him, its hand on his shoulder and its command in his ear--! Even the hubbub of the crowd couldn't save him, the droning of their endless small talk and the soft hissing of their costumes rubbing together. It was overpowering, being stuck in such a noisy crowd…Erk was immediately uncomfortable, too hot, and quite nervous.

The mage finally fought his way out of the group and staggered to a wall. He leaned back against it, its cool stone a relief against his recent bout of claustrophobia, and closed his eyes. Elimine, how he hated events like these. There was always too many people, so much clamor…he grasped the front of his light grey tunic with one hand and let out a gasp of despair. As if it wasn't enough that Lord Pent and Lady Louise had dragged him to a masquerade ball, he would have to spend the rest of the night avoiding _Serra_, of all people…

"Sir? Are you alright?"

Erk's eyes snapped open. That, too, was a sound that he hadn't realized he was so familiar with: another voice, so soft and high and sweet…

His grip tightened on the soft material at his throat. "Priscilla?"

The woman certainly seemed to fit her voice…it _had _to be her. She was so beautiful--it was easy to tell, even though her face was hidden by an elegant white mask edged with cream-colored feathers. She wore a dress of the same subtle color, which managed to hug her curves and still make her look modest—only fitting, for a priestess of Saint Elimine.

The elegant woman cocked her head to the side in confusion. When she spoke, her voice was but a whisper: "…Erk?"

"It _is _you!" Erk realized aloud, a roaring joy suddenly sweeping through him. He hadn't seen her since the war had ended and they'd had to part ways…oh, how often he had thought of her--her emerald eyes, her gentle words, and her kind smile…the one that was showing on her lips right now.

"Oh, Erk!" she cried, and moved for him—his back was still pressed against the wall, so she could not throw her arms around him, but she grasped his shoulders as if she wanted nothing more than for him to pull him closer. Erk shivered at the thought, his hands automatically gripping her shoulders in turn. "I can't believe it's you! What are you doing here?"

"I'm here with Lord Pent," Erk managed to force out—all his words seemed to be charging up his throat, each fighting for the chance to break through first. "I…Priscilla…"

Her name left his lips like a word from his spellbooks—something magical, and powerful, and clear. Her smile only grew in response to hearing it; she took a quiet, deliberate step forward. She was practically in his arms, now.

"My dear friend," she said warmly, "It's been so long…"

"So long," Erk fervently agreed.

"So…are you alright?" Her face was suddenly serious beneath her light mask. "I saw you against the wall there…you looked as if you were feeling ill."

"Indeed," Erk muttered beneath his breath.

Priscilla leaned closer. "I'm sorry?"

"No, no, I'm fine!" he hastily insisted. Her face was now mere inches from his…he couldn't hear her words anymore, he could _feel _them in the warm breath splaying out across his face.

She smiled warmly, eagerly. "So? How have you been? Your letters are well-written, but nothing compared to actually listening to your voice!"

"I feel the same way," Erk admitted. The next moment was a rush of words, squeals of excitement on her part and soft chuckling on his as they spoke of their lives—Erk's studies and training to become the next Mage General of Etruria, Priscilla's parents integrating her into the world of politics. They were like a pair of birds, joyfully twittering away, for a quick minute that seemed to last a year. Erk could have listened to Priscilla talk forever.

However, he started to assess his situation after a while: he and Priscilla standing there, still holding onto each other, back against the wall as everyone else was dancing. He wondered if this moment between them was about to become uncomfortable, wondered if they would run out of things to say. Perhaps he should ask her to dance, perhaps he should just do it—

"Priscilla, I-I was wondering, would you like to—"

"Priscilla?" a new voice asked, old and frail but full of authority. A thin, slightly stooped man sauntered by, his head swiveling back and forth as if he was an owl waiting for the fleeting footsteps of a mouse. "Priscilla, where did you go? I've found the lord of Thria, I want you to meet him..."

"Oh," the healer whispered suddenly, her green eyes widening. "My stepfather."

Erk quickly released her shoulders—reluctantly, but quickly nonetheless. He whispered back, "You should go to him."

Her voice was suddenly protesting, frightened: "But you—"

"I'll still be here," he assured her softly, as warmly as he could. "Don't worry…this ball will last for hours more. We shall get another chance to talk—unless Lord Pent comes for _me_."

A slow smile spread across her lips, evolving into a giggle she could not contain—with a tone more clear and more in-tune than anything that the musicians could have hoped to achieve. Then she was gone with a _swish!_, her cream-colored skirts floating out behind her as she hurried off after the count of Caerleon.

"Mmm," Erk sighed as her footfalls faded away. He had missed the sound of her laughter, more than he would have liked to admit. It had gotten a lot harder to concentrate on his studies when every so often he would read a word that she had spoken before—"Elimine" or "horse" or "escort"—and a flood of memories concerning her voice and her laugh would assault him. He had tried to put her out of his mind, knowing that he might not ever see her again…and yet, here she was…and here was _he_, at a ball for royalty, training under the noble Lord Pent himself…

Just as he was ruminating over this fact, thinking about all the possible implications that it might have on his future, replaying Priscilla's laugh over and over again in his mind, a voice called his name.

No—it wasn't just any voice. It was what chased him in his nightmares, the screech of an enraged dragon, the spite-filled curse of a druid, the keening cry of a bird of prey. He had just fled from it a moment before, and now it was after him again:

"ERKY!"

The mage gasped and walked so fast that he was practically running to the table full of sweetmeats, hoping to lose himself in the crowd gathering there. He lost himself alright—the sharp _clink! _of glasses mid-toast, the gurgle of wine being poured, the raucous laughter of guests reaching for sweets…Erk was immediately overwhelmed by it all. He tried to focus on something with a bit more _order_, something less chaotic, and the steady ¾ beat of the waltz rescued him. He listened hard to the rhythm of the cello, and when he felt better, he began picking out the melody of the violins. He chanted out intervals in his head to ensure that he was calm and could concentrate: major third…dominant fifth…oh, leading to an authentic cadence?

"_ERK!" _

Augmented chord! The mage panicked again at the dissonance buzzing in his ears—not sure if it was from the song or from Serra—and bolted again, this time desperately searching for someone he knew. If he could find Priscilla again…if Serra found him…it would be alright, because he would be with _her_, and he could claim her as his partner, and he wouldn't have to dance with that loud-mouthed little—

"_There _you are!"

A hand gloved in crimson satin reached out and grabbed his wrist. Erk tried hard not to recoil.

"Er…h-hello, Serra…"

"You are _so _hard to catch up to!" she told him, sounding as if she was scolding him. "You should be more polite. Did Lady Louise like her punch? How's her baby doing, anyway—what's his name again? Oh, did you try those little cakes, they're really yummy! Alright, let's dance!"

She had already started to drag him towards the dance floor. Erk stumbled, his head numb from her onslaught of high, perky words.

"S-serra, I really don't—"

"My dearest Serra! You have likened yourself more to a blossoming rose than ever before!"

That voice…so dramatic. That tone…so overly-sweet. That person…well, why in Elimine's name were there so many annoying people in one room?! Erk scowled as an unmistakable man glided up, took Serra's hand, and planted a light kiss on the back of it.

Of course. It had to be none other than Sir Sain, enjoying the ball as all the vassals of Caelin were invited to do.

Erk only dimly registered the ensuing, fast-paced conversation…Sain asking for a dance, Serra shaking Erk's wrist, an unstoppable phalanx of compliments from the green knight—"Why, my darling flower, that color becomes you!"

The knight had inched his face closer to Serra's, his voice but a purr. Erk was still dumbfounded, still unable to pierce through the fog surrounding his head…because he was still goggle-eyed at the fact that Sain's mask and costume were _bright pink._

Serra turned and looked at Erk coyly. "You really think so, Sir Sain?"

She let go of Erk as Sain took her hand in his and gestured to their costumes with the other. "But of course! Why, what a pair we would make, dancing together—my tenderness and your passion!"

Serra laughed—light, tinkling, and haughty. "Fine—I'll dance with _you_, Sain! I'm sure you're better at it than Erk, anyway!"

She smirked at Erk as Sain dragged her away, the knight shooting the mage a good-natured grin of his own. Erk didn't smile back…he just offered a zealous prayer of thanks to Saint Elimine before setting off again in search of Priscilla.

He walked into a group of people and tried to look for her, tried to peel his eyes for the light color of her dress…but the crowd surged and swirled around him, babbling about a hundred different things, smelling of a hundred different perfumes, brushing up against him. There were too many sensations hitting him at once. Erk squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best to ignore the people bumping into him, or the smells wafting through the air. He concentrated on the sounds again, since that seemed to work earlier: the rhythm of feet hitting the ground in time to the waltz, two ladies gossiping about jewelry, a rough voice that was unmistakably Lord Hector's yelling for Lord Eliwood and Lady Ninian to stop making everybody else look bad at dancing…

"She _is _a dancer, Hector!"

"That's just not right, Eliwood—she makes _you _look graceful, too! And that's impossible to do!"

"Oh, come off it! Find Florina and join us!"

"I don't know where the blasted woman disappeared to!"

"W-what about Lady Lyn, Lord Hector? I'm sure that she would dance with you…"

"Like I would dance with that—"

"Hector! Anyway…Ninian, I saw Lyndis leave the ballroom. She isn't here, either."

"But…where would she be, my lord Eliwood?"

"I'll tell you both where: chasing after bloody Kent! They're probably not going to show up for a _long _time—"

"Hector, hold your tongue!"

Erk sighed and opened his eyes. He couldn't hope to find Priscilla amidst such a din…that was finding a needle in a haystack: the silence in the noise. She was so quiet, by nature…therefore, logic dictated that he would have to search for that sort of peace if he wanted to find her. He retreated to the less-occupied outskirts of the ballroom.

Since logic had never failed him before, it was only a few moments before they met again—a joyful call of the other's name, golden and sweet, was all it took to launch them right back into their earlier conversation.

All was going well, and Priscilla had laughed that enchanting laugh of hers several times, and she was starting to blush beneath her mask…when suddenly, Erk caught a glimpse of red and a snatch of a shrill voice amidst the people passing them by. Terror shot through him, but Priscilla had not noticed.

"Come, let's go this way," she said, smiling, reaching for his hand to lead him in the direction of the shrieking scarlet--

"Wait!" Erk whispered immediately, catching Priscilla around the waist and pulling her up against him. She inhaled sharply as he pulled her behind a pillar, her back still pressed snugly to his front. "Wait, wait…let's stay here."

"For what?" asked Priscilla, her voice little more than a gasp—high and suddenly nervous.

"There's somebody looking for me," Erk muttered. "If we could just stay here for a moment…without being spotted…it would make everything much easier."

"Serra?" Priscilla guessed, a hint of laughter in her voice.

Erk smiled. "So she found you, too?"

"Yes, earlier…I don't know why you're so afraid of her, Erk. She's really very sweet."

_And you're really far too kind for your own good_, Erk wanted to say. Instead, he just made a noise deep in his throat that she may or may not have taken to mean that he was agreeing with her, and his arms tightened around her waist. She breathed in again—a slow, almost shuddering hiss.

"I know that she doesn't mean any harm," Erk finally, grudgingly admitted, "but…would you mind if we kept out of sight for just another moment?"

"Why?" whispered Priscilla. She sounded…almost frightened. Frightened and excited. Erk didn't understand.

"Because…I like spending time with only you," he replied softly. "I haven't seen you in such a long time, Lady Priscilla."

"I see," she murmured. Erk closed his eyes in relief and tried again to focus on the music, for a moment…just a few bars or so, until he trusted that Serra would be gone, and he and Priscilla could emerge from behind the pillar…yet he found it increasingly hard to keep his ears where they should be. There was a harmony a third above on the second violin…and Priscilla was taking a soft, shivering breath…and the cello had come in with the bass strain…and Priscilla was exhaling…

Erk couldn't help it. He forgot the music. He listened to the pattern of her breathing. Air sifted in and out of her lungs shallowly, irregularly. Why didn't she sound relaxed? He certainly felt that way, with her in his arms…she hadn't pulled away yet, so he hadn't let her go. He wondered if she knew just how he felt—how he always had felt. He fancied for a brief moment what it might be like to tell her, to send his feelings shooting through the air, and what her reply might sound like. She inhaled again—Erk almost laughed aloud at how good it felt, this almost-silence of Priscilla, and--

"Erk," she whispered suddenly, and he jumped as she broke him out of his reverie.

"Y-yes?"

"Erk, what are you thinking about?" There was a rustle of fabric; Priscilla suddenly turned in his arms. Erk, as a reflex, quickly released her. He felt his face grow hot.

"Er…y-you what to know what I'm th-thinking?"

"Yes," she whispered. Elimine, her voice was _so _unnecessarily sensual…!

He couldn't tell her. He couldn't let her know that he was doing such a silly thing—reveling in the sound of her breathing, ignoring even the music to concentrate on it. He couldn't tell her that he loved the sound, so quiet it was hardly audible.

Erk knew a lot of words, but they all fled from him immediately. He blushed harder; he opened his mouth and nothing coherent came out.

"I-I…I just…w-well, I—"

"I've missed you, Erk."

Priscilla seemed to have blurted out her words—a slip, an accident. She covered her lips with her hand in surprise. Her blush darkened, and she turned her face away…

Erk touched her cheek and coerced her to look at him again. He felt awkward, unused to the sound of skin brushing against skin. "I…I've missed you, too, Priscilla."

"Have you?" she asked, the hint of a challenge within her voice. "You've written me letters…but those are hardly a substitute. We used to see each other every day, during the war. Even when your time as my escort had ended, we stayed together…"

"Priscilla…"

Her breathing was harsher now, louder…or was that just because her face was so much closer to his? Erk wondered briefly what it would be like to close the distance between them, to hear the zip of his fingers dragging against the fabric on the back of her dress, to hear her sigh, to hear—

"Erk, would you like to dance?"

The mage blinked—that was _not _what he had been expecting.

"O-oh, why…yes, of course," he finally managed to reply. "Although…I'm supposed to be the one to ask you, aren't I…?"

The healer smiled at him. "Well, I _would_ certainly like to hear those words from you…next time."

_Next time. _Erk's heart filled with hope. Priscilla took his hand, wound her fingers through his, and walked with him out into the open. They made their way towards the dance floor, past the table of food and wine…and yet, as they passed, something made Erk stop short.

_Splash!_

The mage turned to find a man dressed in black upending a silver flask into the scallop-edged glass bowl of wine. The _very _strong, stinging scent of alcohol reached Erk's nose…just as an eerily familiar impish cackle reached his ears.

"Matthew?" the mage ventured incredulously. "Did you just…add _more _alcohol to the wine?"

The spy grinned at the boy from across the table. "You didn't see anything."

"I didn't see it, I _heard _it!" Erk protested. "And then I smelled it! What are you doing? Nobody will be pleased with this—"

"Eh, they'll thank me later." Matthew waved a hand in the direction of the crowd, as if to wave their presence away, and then swiftly slipped out of sight.

Priscilla gripped Erk's hand tighter, her other hand found his arm. "What's going on, Erk?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Pent's student replied through gritted teeth. "Although I suppose we shall have to report this to somebody…"

Just as he was trying to decide who to inform about Matthew's latest prank, a new melody captured his attention.

"Oh, I love this song," Priscilla exclaimed softly. "Please, can't we dance just once before we tell on Matthew?"

Erk smiled at her. Together they found the dance floor, found each other's hands, and found the beat.

"HEY, NO FAIR! ERK IS DANCING WITH PRISCILLA!"

"Lovely Serra, your jealousy only makes you all the more adorable--wait! Come back!"

"ERK! DANCE WITH ME NEXT!"

Erk decided he'd like to go deaf.

* * *

_A/N: I don't think I did as good a job with this chapter as I did with the last. Sigh. Oh well. Time for color explanations! Erk is grey, of course: balanced, cool, rather boring, and lacking in heavy emotions. Serra is red: energy, love, emotion, and danger. Priscilla is cream: calm, quiet, and a warm sort of innocence. Matthew is black: mystery and evil. Duh. And—finally—Sain is pink: a blend of the innocence of white and the passion of red. Also because I believe that he is one of the few who could pull off such an outrageous color. _

_All feedback on this chapter would make my whole day…I'd like to know what can be improved. Thanks so much!_


	3. Flower Found

_A/N: So the alternate title for this chapter is "In Which Kender Makes a Bunch of Unintentional Cop-offs" xD. Turns out that Sagewolf also did her smell chapter about Pent and Louise, and Qieru also used Eric of Laus in her fic…so naturally I'm kind-of bummed, because I had this whole chapter planned out the whole time, but I'm the last to post it…so I look like a lame-o…I'm so sorry, guys._

_On another note…so, my English teacher happened to mention the other day that using a completely omniscient point of view—as in knowing the thoughts of two main characters, instead of the norm of just one—is a tactic only used by "master authors". And I was like "what the heck?". And the flute player in my brain was like "We're so trying this". Hence, a chapter from both Pent and Louise's PoV…let's see if I can pull this off, eh?_

* * *

_**Sense:**__ Smell_

_**Rating:**__ T. Because of Sain pulling a Matthew. And because Eric needs to watch his mouth._

_**Pairing:**__ PentxLouise_

_**Flower Found**_

Violets. How he loved that.

Pent stood on the white stone balcony with Louise in his arms, his nose buried in her golden hair. When the people of Reglay had begun calling her that affectionate name, the Lady of Violets, they hadn't realized exactly how right they were. Violets seemed to be _everywhere_, when Louise was concerned…they were her favorite flowers. She had them about her night and day: sitting on the tables, growing in the windowsills, pinned to her collar, tucked behind her ear. Everywhere Louise went, the smell of violets went also, floating around her like a floral haze. This particular evening, it was present even in her apparel: her silky gown and beaded mask were both a soft, girlish shade of lavender. Pent sighed happily.

Louise sighed too, her arms around his neck, the first to realize that their break from the ball had gone on for too long already. "…My lord Pent, it looks like it's going to storm."

"Yes, I can smell it coming," her husband replied distractedly. In truth, he loved the sense of an approaching thunderstorm—the dampness in the air, the scent of grass and earth, the electricity that stung his nose. There was great power in every storm, and his whole body tingled with the thrill of it…or perhaps he was feeling that way now because Louise, Lady of Violets, was still in his arms. They did not have many moments alone—Pent was usually too wrapped up in his studies, in his library, with only musty air and bitter ink and the satisfying scent of parchment for company. He knew that she got lonely, he _knew _that…and yet, something always seemed to come up any time he had a moment to spend with her. Guilt clutched at his heart when he saw the smiles she formed, just for him—loving and forgiving and _utterly _disappointed—but then the pages of his textbooks and the handsome grey feathers of his quills would replace the curve of her lips, the sadness in her eyes.

For all the time they had been married, he still had not become completely accustomed to her. He could still smell the violets.

Of course, he hadn't been a _completely _negligent husband…he loved her, Louise knew that for sure, and she understood how important his studies were. She did not begrudge him for being so distracted and busy, for in truth, it wasn't his fault. In fact, she mused to herself, it just made the moments between them sweeter—such as the one taking place now, in which he had pulled her away from the ballroom to steal a kiss. They had remained out there, just holding each other, watching the rain clouds roll in and cover the moon.

"We're going to get rained on," Louise whispered. The wind already felt damp as it skimmed past the skin uncovered by her lavender mask, bringing breaths of fresh, sweet air.

"Is that such a problem, my dear?"

"Well," she teased, straightening his golden collar for him, "I wouldn't want your costume to get wet. I spent so long picking it out for you…"

Pent smiled slightly. She was a kind woman, and often selfless…she didn't like to speak up about what she wanted. And yet, she had those girlish mannerisms, that gift of getting her way every single time…Pent knew exactly what she was doing. He saw right through her delectable charm—she was trying to get him back inside without actually saying that was what she desired.

He offered her his arm and fell for the womanly ruse anyway. The two stepped back into the ballroom.

The wet, clean air was instantly replaced with a cloying wave of myriad perfumes. _Vanilla, lavender, roses, raspberry…_Louise tried to separate them all, but her attempt was in vain.

"Would you like me to get you something to drink, Louise?"

Pent could see that he had broken her out of a reverie, but she remained as cool and collected as always as she accepted his offer. He smiled and pressed her hand before leaving her side and making his way towards the tables with wine.

He hadreached them, and picked up a silver ladle to fetch Louise's drink with…when the smell of the wine wafted up, stinging Pent's nose. He felt his brow furrow—what _was _that year? He hadn't thought that it would be so overwhelming…perhaps Louise shouldn't have so much. After coming to that conclusion, he poured her a small glass and turned to walk back to her…

Then, suddenly, an even sharper scent became evident, pricking Pent's very sinuses.

"I smell a rat," Pent murmured, glancing to the side. Sure enough, a man clad in bright pink was emptying more alcohol—_stronger _alcohol—into the wine. Pent didn't quite recognize this man, but he did seem vaguely familiar…

The man grinned sheepishly beneath his vivid mask upon noticing that he had been caught. "Er," he began in way of explanation, the lilting timbre of his voice stirring in Pent's memory, "This is…sort-of for a friend's sake…he's too uptight for his own good, you know, and if I could drag him into the ballroom, this would help him relax…"

"You don't seem to be the first person to have had this idea," Pent retorted, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell rising from the bowl of wine. He was sure that someone had already added to it—perhaps even several someones.

The man in pink's smile only widened. "Well, at least this evening shall prove to be quite merry, my lord…?"

"Pent," the count replied slowly. "Of Reglay."

"…If you'll excuse me," said the not-quite-stranger quickly, his face suddenly bright red, before hastily losing himself in the nearest crowd. Pent raised an eyebrow.

"What a funny man."

* * *

Across the room, Louise watched the guests at the ball dancing as she waited patiently for her husband to return. The waltzing couples seemed to her like a strange, undulating sea…lace hems turned to foam, cresting on waves of billowing skirts; perfumes wafted through the air like the sweet salt in an ocean breeze; and the scent of cologne she could detect from the men was darker, more bitter, like that of seaweed. There was even a treasure washed up on the shore, she noted with some amusement, as a lady in white with a Pegasus mask dropped one of her pearl earrings. Her partner, a man dressed smartly in royal blue, waited with barely concealed impatience as she found her earring and secured it back into its proper place.

Another couple suddenly breezed by in a rush of black skirts and cinnamon, twirling gaily and laughing together. They both seemed quite apt at dancing, though they paid little regard to their surroundings, and Louise couldn't help but wish that she could dance as well as the woman in ebony velvet. She seemed to be guiding the purple-clad man she was with, instead of the other way around…

"Mind if I cut in?" a nasal voice asked, and suddenly the noble in purple was shouldered aside as his partner was usurped by a man wearing an unfortunate shade of green. Louise wrinkled her nose in disgust. The costume had a strange orange undertone, making the average viridian of the material fade to the sickly color of old, corroded copper.

"I—" the first young noble clenched his empty fists at his sides. "Hold on, we weren't finished--!"

"Eliwood, stop being so possessive," the man in blue called over his shoulder, while dancing with his Pegasus partner.

"Would _you_ let _your_ dear one dance with Eric of Laus?" the lord in deep violet forced out through his teeth.

"Eric?!" The blue noble immediately abandoned his partner and made his way towards his fellow. "What is _he _doing here?"

"He's the new marquess of Laus, Hector. Or don't you remember?" Young Eliwood's hands were still balled up into fists. "That man must be him—I'd recognize that voice anywhere."

The taller man with Eliwood froze for a moment, seeming shocked, but then his lips quickly turned into a scowl. "Well, then—let's get that lout back here!"

Eliwood himself seemed surprised by this sudden call for action. "Now, Hector, let's be reasonable—"

_Hector _and _reasonable _were not words that could usually be used in the same sentence, Louise remembered with a slight smile. Still, she could smell trouble brewing, and a twinge of concern rose within her to see Lord Hector swiftly force his way through the crowd to where Eric was dancing with Ninian. The new marchioness looked very uncomfortable with her new partner, and Lord Eliwood, as he hurried after Hector, seemed positively livid. The young lady that had been dancing with Hector—presumably Florina—followed the two nobles after a moment's hesitation.

The worry pricking Louise's heart suddenly evolved into a stab of fear as Hector grabbed Lord Eric's shoulder and spun him around. Ninian took a quick step back, wringing her hands as if glad to be free of his grip, and Eliwood went immediately to her side.

"It's nice to see you, Eric," he began coolly, "but don't you know that it's rude to switch partners in the middle of a dance?"

Hector snorted. "That's just polite-talk for _what on Elibe are you doing with Eliwood's wife_?"

Eric smirked and disdainfully lifted Hector's hand from his shoulder as if Ostia's marquess had some sort of leprosy. His eyes flicked over to Ninian. "This wench is your wife, Eliwood? Strange..."

"Wench?" Eliwood gasped in outrage.

Hector's face was a menacing inch from Eric's in an instant. "You'd better take that back, you pig!"

Eric seemed unfazed. "I see your temper hasn't changed a bit, Hector."

"I see you still haven't learned any manners!"

"Hector—" Eliwood started to say warningly, but Eric cut him off.

"Still so concerned with starting fights, even in such an atmosphere…" The marquess of Laus gestured to the ballroom around him and sighed. "What an oaf."

"_I swear to Saint Elimine_—!"

"Hector, please," Eliwood murmured agitatedly, though his hand strayed to grasp Ninian's own. "Let's settle this in a calm fashion, shall we? I don't want you both to get into a fight…_again_."

"I believe the both of you started it," Eric retorted with a dark glare.

"Look here, you little worm—"

"Hector! That's enough!"

The three nobles paused, not sure how to proceed, each clearly wanting some way to win the argument before they parted. Eric appeared to look down and notice as Ninian's fingers threaded through Eliwood's, a response to his silent claim on her, and it was clear even through the putrid color of his mask that his eyes were devouring the sight of Ninian's curvaceous figure.

"I can't imagine why you're acting so protective, Eliwood," Eric began. "No one would have pegged you for such a man, but I see right through you."

"What do you mean?" asked the lord of Pherae coldly.

Eric grinned at the lords, the infuriating smile of someone planning a horrendous insult. "Well, it's not as if you married her for love, right? For her brains or for political gain? A commoner girl with no background, no education or status, only the wiles to charm you into a marriage completely devoid of strategy…why, how could you berate me about manners when the woman involved is one you've obviously only wed just to rut--?"

_Smack! _

Eliwood had let go of Ninian's hand, ripped off one of his black gloves, and slapped Eric across the face with it. There was enough force behind the blow to make the latter lord recoil, and a red mark appeared on his cheek.

"You shall meet me at sunrise," Eliwood ordered furiously, "so that I might shove my rapier down your throat!"

"Ah, Lord Eliwood!" Ninian cried suddenly, and lunged forward to catch his elbow. "P-please, remember what you said about handling this calmly--!"

"If even Eliwood can't keep his cool, here, then I don't need an excuse," said Hector. His fingers curled into a fist, he drew his elbow back to throw a punch at Eric…and Florina, who had been cowering behind the big lord, quickly grabbed his hand. "Lord Hector, stop!"

Hector froze at that, surprise contorting his visible features, and Florina let go of him as if his touch had burned her. "I-I mean…please…d-don't do this…"

Tensions had risen too quickly. Soon, Louise knew, guests would start to take notice of the fight, would start to whisper excitedly about Eliwood's challenge, already eager for the smell of fresh air and steel and blood. Louise had to act immediately. She hurried towards the men.

"Pardon me," she said softly, and five sets of eyes turned to look at her—fearful, surprised, enraged. She just shot them all a sweet, unarming smile, and gestured to the area behind them: which contained the table of food that Pent had ventured off to find, although now the sight was concealed by a crowd of people. "I need to pass by in order to find my husband, if you wouldn't mind…"

"…Not at all," said Eliwood, the first to react, and he took a quick step backwards to let her pass. Hector followed, somewhat grudgingly. When Eric stood aside, he did so exactly as Louise had planned he would: on her other side, opposite of Eliwood and Hector. She had just effectively separated the men, and her smile widened as she passed by.

A reeking, acerbic smell instantly assaulted her as she did so, and it took a lot of willpower for Louise to keep her face from showing disgust—not only was Eric's cologne quite powerful, but he was wearing far too much of it. Louise held her breath until she reached Eliwood, and was relieved to find that he was the source of the cinnamon she had detected earlier. From this distance, she could also pick up Ninian's scent—a vague, clean, unfamiliar smell, which stung her nose like the air of an icy winter morning. The young lady of Pherae was clutching her husband's arm, and Louise felt a sudden, sharp desire to find Pent again.

As she made her way towards the table that the Mage General had presumably gone to, Louise chanced a glance back over her shoulder…to find that the two parties of arguing lords were now stubbornly ignoring each other, rather than continuing their disagreement. She giggled to herself at a job well done.

"You have a gift, Louise," a soft voice remarked, and Louise turned with joy to find Pent slipping through a nearby crowd of bright costumes to reach her side, a glass of wine in his hand.

"So you saw me?" she asked, half coy and half sheepish.

He chuckled. "Yes, indeed. I'm not sure if the conflict would have escalated into violence, but it very well might have if you had not come along."

"I wanted to help," Louise murmured demurely. Pent fingered his chin thoughtfully, and Louise knew that he was already far away from her, dreaming up the possible causes and effects of the argument between the lords, creating a thesis and doubtlessly writing an essay in his head…

"Is this for me?" she asked quietly, reaching towards the wine he held.

Pent twitched slightly, startled back into reality. "Oh, yes. Here you are, my dear."

He held the crystal goblet out to her, and Louise took it gingerly from her husband's hand. She frowned slightly as she held the glass up to the light, examining the low level of the amber liquid. "Why, this can't be more than a sip, my lord!"

"It seemed…very strong," Pent replied softly, gently placing his hand over hers and guiding it back down to a normal height. "I figured that less might be more, in this case."

Louise raised her glass once more, up to her face. Pent had been correct, she realized—whatever it was, it was quite pungent. The Mage General watched in amusement as she scrunched up her fair nose and told him, "You're right! Of course…you usually are."

"…Louise." Pent smiled, unsure of what else to say or how to take the compliment. She alone had the power to confuse him, even now when they were wed. She curled her free hand around his elbow, pulling herself close to him, and looked up at him through her light lashes.

"Can we go up and see the baby?" she whispered.

Pent's eyes flared open. "Oh! Why…yes, of course, Louise. I suppose we wouldn't be missed if we left for another short moment…"

She beamed as he escorted her out of the ballroom. The heady air they had grown accustomed to was quickly replaced with something cleaner as they ventured farther down the somewhat musty corridor. Pent fancied he could detect the oily tang of silver polish lingering as he and Louise walked to their chamber, and evidenced his theory with the fact that the decorative suits of armor lining the hallway were indeed quite shiny. Caelin had clearly been preparing to house so many lords and ladies.

Pent and Louise had finally reached their door, and it was with caution that Louise turned the knob, trying not to make any noise. The room was dark, and she could only see vague, blurry shapes: the large black lump that was the bed, the blobby ruffles of her child's cradle, the undulating shadow of a moving rocking chair. The light from the hallway spilled onto the figure in the chair—a drowsy-looking young maid, who had been assigned to watch the babe while Pent and Louise had to attend the ball.

She quickly jumped up to greet them. "M-my lord! My lady—"

Pent opened his mouth to thank her for getting his son to sleep, but Louise was faster in sending the girl one of her golden smiles.

"We just came in to check on him," the Lady of Violets said sweetly. "You may take a break, if you like."

That was a subtle dismissal as much as it was an act of kindness. The maid hurriedly bobbed a curtsey, murmured her thanks, and scurried from the room. Louise pulled her hand away from Pent's arm and moved towards the still cradle, gazing with love at the tiny form swaddled up inside of it.

"Klein," she whispered.

Pent walked to Louise's side and slipped an arm around her shoulders, making a very astute and scholarly observation: "He can't hear you, my dear. He's asleep."

"Oh, I know that." Louise didn't tear her eyes from the baby; her voice was low and tender. She knew that it took a while to soothe him to sleep, she knew that he would probably wake back up if she moved him…and she knew that she absolutely had to have him in her arms, right then. Ignoring the potential consequences, she set her untouched glass of wine on the bedside table before gently lifting Klein up and holding his head against her shoulder. He shifted slightly in his sleep, so warm and small and soft, and Louise would have suddenly given anything to not go back down to the ball. Pent seemed to have similar thoughts as he reached out a long finger and stroked Klein's smooth cheek.

Louise had to admit: at first, when their baby had just been born, she had been afraid that Pent might not give enough attention to the child—that he might continue his habits of holing himself up in his study and ceasing to pay attention to the outside world. To her. To Klein.

Yet Pent quickly proved himself to be a loving and able parent. From the moment he first beheld the child, Louise could see that his normal studies had flown from his mind: her husband was _enthralled_. He spent every moment he could with Klein, observing each tiny movement and sound.

"Look, Louise," he would say excitedly, "look how small his feet are! See, he opens his eyes! Have you noticed how he tries to smile when you poke his nose with this feather—have you? Look, he's doing it again!"

And Louise, though full of wonder herself, would smile tiredly and tell her husband not to put feathers in Klein's tiny face. Of course, that still did nothing to dispel Pent's fascination.

"He's making a noise! What is that? What do you want, Klein? Do you want the feather? Oh, no, don't you coo at me, your mother said that you can't have it…oh…oh, dear. What a loud cry you have for such a little thing."

Louise loved the feverish sheen in Pent's eyes when he studied the child—a father to a son, a teacher to a pupil, a scholar to a subject. They were all the same relationship, as far as the Mage General of Etruria was concerned. He was already compiling a list of books on magic that Klein should read, as soon as he learned how to read…he could already tell that his son didn't possess the magic spark, but Pent was determined that he would at _least _know as much as any mage.

Louise didn't understand how Pent knew there was an absence of magic in his child. He tried to explain it to her, but she couldn't seem to comprehend the solid logic, and he tried to be patient and open-minded. That current of magic…to feel it within yourself, to find it within someone else…it was something you could sense, like the scent of damp, crackling air before a thunderstorm; like the bitter sting after lightning strikes the ground; like the rich smoke of a roaring fire. It was unmistakable.

Louise couldn't sense any of that—but she leaned her face down towards the child and tried again, anyway. He smelled sweet; milk and powder and the soft fragrance of an infant's skin. It was a strange contrast to the way she perceived Pent, as he pulled her close: he always smelled of dust, and ink, and vaguely of smoke—doubtlessly from magical experiments that had gone awry. Beneath all that, there was a strange sort of spice which she had never been able to name, subtle but exotic. She closed her eyes happily, surrounded by the two men that she loved most in the world.

"Maybe we should just retire for the night," she ventured quietly.

Pent sighed in contentment. "I agree. We'll have plenty of time for politics tomorrow."

Louise nodded, and it was with great reluctance that she pulled out of Pent's arms and began lowering Klein back into his cradle. The baby finally woke at this movement—he gurgled, his eyes opened wide, his chubby arm flailed as he tried to learn to control it. His tiny hand landed on his father's cheek, a gentle touch which slipped away in an instant as Louise made hushing noises and tucked him in for bed. He was asleep again before a minute had passed. Pent's fingertips flew to his face in surprise.

A sudden movement from behind him broke him out of his thoughts—Lady Florina rushed by the doorway in a flurry of milky feathers and gauzy skirts. Louise turned in surprise and curiosity, her porcelain brow furrowed…but Pent ignored the fleeting passing of the future marchioness of Ostia. There really was only one thing that mattered to him, at the moment: the lingering feeling of a child's touch, of Klein's soft hand against his cheek.

Oh, and the scent of Louise, which he noticed once again as he pulled her into an embrace.

Violets. How he loved that.

* * *

_A/N: So, I've always wanted to make Eliwood challenge somebody to a duel the French way xD. With the glove—KA-POW! (I swear, they do that ALL THE TIME in __The Count of Monte Christo__…it's so great.) I know that he and Hector were hostile towards Eric right off the bat…which might seem odd…but, really, the last time they saw him, he was trying to kill them. It's just that Louise didn't really know that, so I couldn't explain it in-context. Also…what Pent says about Sain…does it sound familiar to another support conversation involving Sain and Louise? xD (And blasted FE6. I haven't played it, so I don't really know the father-son or mother-son relationships between Pent, Louise, and Klein…oops.)_

_Color time! Louise is lavender: genteel, romantic, elegant, and rare (pretty much the only "clear-hearted" one of Pent's potential wives, no?). Pent is gold: wealth, prestige, illumination. Eric of Laus got the disgusting combo of orange and green: ambition, plus greed and jealousy. Well, there we go…please review and let me know how I'm doing? _


	4. Tremblingly Traced

_A/N: Chapter Four. I'd say more. But I have to write chapter five. (Commences panic attack.)_

* * *

_**Sense: **__Touch_

_**Rating: **__T again. Flippin' Eric and that flippin' wine._

_**Pairing: **__HectorxFlorina_

_**Tremblingly Traced**_

Something was wrong.

Hector glanced over at Florina, a vague sense of unease pricking at him as he did so. She had been acting somewhat strangely all night—stranger than usual, that is, for a shy, man-fearing, and surprisingly stubborn wisp of a girl. Nothing looked different about her…but something just seemed _off._

It had taken Hector a while to notice, but he had caught on eventually: when they danced, Florina wasn't leaning away, terrified at the prospect of having their bodies brush together accidentally. Her hand was no longer hesitant and limp, content just to be held, but sure and strong—grasping his hand right back. It didn't tremble, not even when he threaded his fingers through hers.

Where had this sudden lack of fear sprung from? Was it because she couldn't tell anyone apart at the masquerade ball—because no one could tell that it was her? Because there were no men or women, no difference between them, only masks and costumes and slippery satin and scaly sequins and fantastical creatures that spun around in circles until she couldn't sort anything out anymore?

Hector frowned as he thought. They weren't dancing at that moment, so he had more time to ponder the odd way that she was acting—and, blast it all, pondering hurt his head. She had left him to those ruminations, however, begging his leave and skittering away to Elimine-knows-where to do Elimine-knows-what…for the second time that night. He had left the dance floor and moved to stand by the wall with his thoughts and his frown and his arms folded. That was another thing—why did she keep disappearing?

Why did she crane her neck in that peculiar way when she dropped her earring earlier, studying the pearl, as if she hadn't seen it a dozen times before? Why did she finger every sleek, glassy curve as she slowly stood, marveling at its perfectly unblemished surface before reverently fastening it back to her ear?

And then there had been the strangest moment of the night—when Eric of Laus had been insulting Ninian, and Hector had gotten angry. Who did that cad think he was, anyway, to speak about a woman that way? It was no wonder that Eliwood had challenged him to a duel—Hector hardly knew what he himself would do if Eric had been talking about Florina, who was easily as graceful and talented and lovely as Ninian…even if she _did _trip over things quite a lot and couldn't hold a heavy lance straight and had hair that sometimes felt inclined to frizz until it threatened the lives of innocent civilians.

Maybe it was because he couldn't stand the thought of Eric making comments about Florina, maybe it was because he wanted to avenge his best friend, or maybe it was because he just really, _really _hated Eric of Laus…but for whatever reason, Hector had ignored the fact that he was at a political function and pulled back to punch Eric in the face.

Florina had grabbed his fist.

She _grabbed _his _fist_, pulling it back with uncharacteristically strong hands, the silk of her gloves pressed so firmly against his fingers that he could feel each thin, individual fiber. He dimly remembered that she had yelled something out—_Lord Hector, stop!_—like a _command_, her voice clearer and deeper than usual, quite devoid of any stutter…but that hardly mattered. Her touch had frozen him, the way she acted of her own accord to take his hand in hers—something she had never done before. Her well-made gloves were soft against his skin (he had refused to wear his own gloves to the masquerade, what with their itchy cuffs and too-tight fingers, even though he had received more than one disapproving glance from Eliwood). Hector didn't move, not even when that softness quickly disappeared as Florina seemed to regain her wits.

"Lord Hector…"

Yeah, that was another strange thing—half the time, on this particular night, she didn't even squeak when she said his name. Her voice almost always cracked or lost itself when she spoke to him, although she was getting much better at overcoming her fears. By this point, he had suspected that half of the soft huskiness in her voice was love, although that might've been too much to hope for…he certainly hadn't heard that sweet tone yet, this night…

"Lord Hector!"

A touch on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts—light, but just a fraction of a second too long for it to be Florina. Hector turned, expecting Eliwood or Matthew or Serra or Lyn (well, maybe not Lyn, since Hector had a strong suspicion that she was trying to duck out of the ball altogether…or to force Kent to dance with her. Whichever was hardest.)…but he found that it was indeed, to his great surprise, his little fiancée.

"Where did you go?" he asked her.

Florina tugged nervously on the gauzy sleeves of her white dress. "Umm…n-nowhere important…"

Hector smiled. Despite her strange new bravery and her strange new actions and her strange new stutter—which sounded as if she was trying to control it--, she still never failed to make him happy to see her. Now that she was back at his side, it seemed so natural that it was nearly unnoticeable, how the corners of his lips stretched upwards until they started to ache.

"Well, don't leave again," he ordered her playfully. "This blasted ball isn't nearly as fun without you."

He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently, and she squeezed back—an automatic, normal, human response. Hector's smile disappeared. If he knew anything about Florina, it was that she was _not _one for giving automatic, normal, human responses. Just kissing her hand was enough to make her shudder slightly…as she had once confided to him, she feared his advances as much as she longed for them.

He found himself studying her then, utterly perplexed. The frame beneath her ivory dress was just as tiny as the one he had carried out of the Dragon's Gate (protest and gasp though she did), and her delicate chin was the same one that he cupped so often to force her to look at him, and her curved lips were the same shape that they always were when they were tempting him to ignore how much it would scare her and just finally give her their first kiss…in fact, those doll-like features were something that both of her sisters shared with her.

…Both of her sisters.

_OH._

"It can't be!" Hector muttered, grasping the thin material of her glove and sliding it off of her hand. He was quickly formulating a plan in his head, a way to immediately discover the identity of the lady beside him without tearing off her mask in public—after all, what if it really _was _poor Florina?

"W-what are you doing?" the woman asked nervously. Hector dismissed her worried inquiries with an absentminded shake of his head and lifted her hand close to his face—her palm was rough and calloused beneath his fingers, the back of her hand soft and milky-white. He needed to do something drastic, something sudden, something racy, something that would make the true Florina do something obviously…Florina-esque. Hector had to know.

He studied the underside of her wrist, toying with the idea of pressing his lips to it in a sensual kiss, feeling her warm pulse against his mouth, sure that such a daring action would startle her sufficiently…but no, he couldn't do that.

Clearly he had to be far moreforward!

His mind made up, Hector _licked _her, running his tongue lightly against the smooth, soft skin of the inside of her wrist. She let out a strangled gasp, and Hector threw down her hand with a smirk—half exalting and half angry.

That sort of reaction was a _normal _woman's reaction—not Florina's! Not the girl who had shrieked bloody murder just the other day when Hector had, on impulse, leaned over and kissed her ear! Her shrill response had been enough to hurt his eardrums, and Hector had hurriedly resolved not to ever surprise Florina again.

Therefore. This harlot wasn't her.

Hector moved quickly, snatching the downy feathers of her Pegasus mask and ripping it off of her face. She cried out and quickly moved to cover her face with her hands…but it was too late. Hector had already seen who she _really _was.

"FARINA!" he bellowed furiously.

"Lord Hector, give me my mask back!" the imposter pleaded, her voice muffled through her white-gloved fingers.

"_Your_ mask?" roared Hector, shaking it in her general direction. "What in blazes are you _doing_ here? And…and…AND WHERE'S FLORINA?!"

The older Pegasus Sister lowered her hands slowly, scowling, clearly unfazed by Hector's blustery manner. "She's in her room. Now, please calm down—people are staring."

Hector glanced around, his gaze still fiery with anger, to find that passerby had indeed been freezing and whispering and watching his outburst. An average man would have flushed--Hector restrained the urge to grab the nearest nosy gossip by the throat.

"Why," he hissed lethally, moving his face close to Farina's, "are you here? And _why are you taking Florina's place_?"

"Oh, I don't know…" Farina drawled in mock innocence, "Maybe because…_she's absolutely terrified of you?"_

Hector stopped dead and stared at Farina. A strange, cold sort of dread welled up within him, climbing hand-over-hand up his spine until it reached his heart. "…Terrified?"

"In a place like this?" Farina gestured incredulously to ballroom—the flames on the chandelier candles bobbing against the perfumed air, the somewhat-tipsy guests brushing past each other in their dances, the strange masks and fabrics of every costume. "You know how easily Florina gets spooked—a setting like this would make her so nervous!"

Hector had to admit that the way people were changed into something other than people, into something alien and incomprehensible and still strangely _tangible_ was a tad disconcerting. Disconcerting and fantastical and grotesque, at once beautiful and eerie. But…that wasn't the point.

"It's not the masquerade," Hector whispered hoarsely. "You just said…it was me. Florina's scared of _me_."

"Well, you _are _a man." Farina shrugged nonchalantly.

"B-but I'm her betrothed!" Hector sputtered.

"And?"

"She shouldn't be afraid of me—she's going to _marry _me!"

"…_And_?"

"Farina!" Hector snapped. She might have known him well enough to be informal with him—both of the elder Pegasus Sisters had been hovering around Ostia since Hector had proposed to the youngest—but this was going too far. "_Why _are you pretending to be Florina?"

The Ilian looked away and delicately cleared her throat. "Well…"

"Is she really that unable to stand me?" Hector asked softly. "Am I really…that bad? She has to use you to stand in her place, to bear my touch?"

Farina's bit her lower lip and lowered her head. "No, she…I…it isn't…"

"She could have said no, if this was really so horrible! She—"

"It's not that!" Farina interrupted quickly. "Lord Hector…she wants to be with you. You know that."

"Do I?" asked Hector darkly, staring the Pegasus Rider down. She glared back for a moment before dropping her gaze, mumbling something about giving him an explanation while taking his hand to lead him somewhere.

The fingers holding his own, beneath the smooth glove…of course he hadn't recognized them right away, hadn't recognized _her. _What a ruse, to parade as someone else when no one could see your face. Hector might have toyed with the possibilities of sneaking out of future Ostian balls with such an idea—he could force Matthew to be Hector while Hector himself skipped the event altogether—but he was too angry to think it through. It was a low thing that Farina had done…and, in the same turn, that Florina had done. He had to know why…

"Oomph!"

Someone barreled by, clipping Hector's side heavily in a drunken stumble.

"Hey!" the lord shouted indignantly, jerking Farina to a stop and turning to face the offender. Said man was tottering off to the table with the huge bowl of wine, looking for all the world like a seasick tower of mold in his strangely green costume, carrying a silver flask in one hand.

"Eric," Hector growled, and he pulled his hand out of Farina's firm grasp to go chase after his nemesis.

Eric clumsily unscrewed the cap of his flask and started upending the contents of it into the wine; his movements were so choppy that droplets of wine splashed upward and hit Hector's cheek, cold and wet against the skin that his blue mask didn't cover. Hector roughly grabbed Eric's wrist, stopping the flow of liquid from the flask.

"And what do you think _you're _doing?"

"Thish party needs to liven up," Eric slurred decisively. He looked over then, and suddenly seemed to notice that Hector had a hold on him. "'Ey—get offa me, ya great big…oafy…stupid…"

He flailed an arm weakly to try to slap Hector's hand away, but the grip of Ostia's marquess only tightened. "Did you seriously just add alcohol to _wine_, you disgraceful little louse?"

"…thick…great big cad…"

Hector let out a snort of contempt and released Eric's wrist. "Don't you think you should be sober to meet Eliwood's challenge tomorrow morning? You wouldn't want to make a _complete _idiot out of yourself, just the regular sort of idiot."

"Ah, the ch-challenge…" Eric _did _seem to sober up, at that. "I was just gonna…steady my nerves…to say m'sorry…"

He looked nervously over to the other side of the room, where Eliwood and Ninian were blissfully spinning in a dance. Since Eric's insult, Eliwood had been noticeably more possessive of his wife…he pressed his brow to hers as they danced, then his lips to hers. His hand slid down from her shoulder blade to low on her waist. Hector set his teeth—why couldn't Florina love him that way? All of his previous anger returned, and he needed an outlet…luckily, Eric was right there, now gazing keenly into the bowl of wine.

"…Where did you spawn from, anyway?" Hector asked him in a mutter. "I bet even the gods don't know how to make something so pathetic."

Eric responded by glancing up at Eliwood, frowning, and reaching for the nearest empty goblet. Hector couldn't hold back an exasperated sigh. He hadn't thought there could be anything worse than a normal-minded Eric…but he had been wrong. Hector could knock his block off right there and nobody would even notice…they'd probably just think that the poor fool passed out…

Come to think of it, that was an excellent idea. Hector curled his fingers into a fist--

And was promptly socked in the shoulder by a tiny hand.

"Ouch!" he protested, but Farina drowned him out:

"I finally found you! Do you want to see Florina or not!"

"Er…right…"

Fingers like iron beneath silk clamped around his own, and Hector was lead out of the ballroom.

The cool air of the corridor was a relief as it skimmed over his face, and Hector was glad that the walls were stone and still, instead of couples twirling in constant motion. He reached out and touched the wall as he walked on, feeling the cold, rough blocks skim against his fingertips. It was enough to drag him back into reality, away from the stifling contact of the ballroom. Farina was just about to show him up a wide staircase near the end of the hallway, when she gave a small start and halted in her tracks.

"Hold on," she whispered suddenly. "I need to see something."

Still holding his hand, she tiptoed past the staircase and to the end of the corridor, subtly peeking her head around the corner. Hector did the same, now hearing what must have caused Farina to take her detour: low murmurs.

"I had asked them to place me on duty this night."

"Why would you do a thing like that?"

"Well, I-I would have felt bad attending something so frivolous in lieu of—"

"I'm attending. Are you calling me shallow, Kent? Since I am not making myself useful at the moment?"

"N-no! Of course not, milady! I would nev—um!"

Hector felt himself grin: Lyn and Kent were standing in the hallway, with the princess holding a finger against the knight's lips to silence him. Kent was flushing rapidly at his lady's touch, but she hardly seemed to notice.

Hector noticed. _Excellent…I was right!_

"Has Sain come to relieve you at all?" Lyn asked softly, removing her finger.

Kent gulped visibly. "Yes…he came by earlier tonight, but I sent him away. He looked like he was having so much fun…I didn't want to deprive him…"

"When do you get to have your fun?" Lyn murmured. Her hands reached up, her fingertips traced their way from his temples to the corner of his mouth, where they lingered. "Your face is going to be a mess of lines before you're Sain's age, you know."

Kent's trembling, though slight, was not enough to pass Hector by. "My lady—"

Farina chuckled evilly beside him before pulling Hector away from the amusing sight, linking her fingers through his—doubtlessly in an attempt to keep him from running back and yelling something mocking to Lyn.

"That Kent," she said gleefully as she and Ostia's lord charged up the stairs. "What a stiff!"

They stopped in front of the door to Florina's chamber, all laughter disappearing. Farina was still for a long moment, looked up into his eyes, took a deep breath...and Hector shouldered past her and forced open the door.

Florina was sitting on the edge of her bed, fiddling with a silver necklace that Hector had given her some weeks ago, her face creased with an unspoken worry. Her head shot up abruptly when Hector stormed in.

"Farina, are you done being—EEK!"

At any other time, that scream might have made Hector laugh fondly. Now all he wanted to do was bury his face in his hands as Florina scrambled back until a wall of pillows prevented further escape. "L-L-Lord Hector!"

"Yeah, sorry," said Farina, somewhat apathetically, as she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. "He found out."

"Y-you said he wouldn't!" Florina cried, her eyes flicking nervously between her sister and Hector.

"Well, it _did _take him an extremely long time—"

"I knew something was up since the moment you touched me!" Hector snarled to Farina, before turning his interest back to his betrothed. "Now, would _anybody_ care to tell me what's going on?"

Florina's cerulean eyes widened; she opened her trembling mouth, but no words followed. Hector approached her slowly and sank to his knees by the side of the bed, so that they were more-or-less at eye level. His fingers gripped the soft, quilted material of her coverlet.

"Is it that bad?" he whispered to her. "Are you really so afraid of me? Elimine, Florina, it's just dancing…I had no idea you were this desperate to—"

"N-no, Lord Hector!" she hastily interrupted. "It's not that! It's…well, Farina…" She looked to her fellow Pegasus rider, lowered her eyes, and gulped. "Farina and Fiora wanted to…see something. To t-test y-you…"

"A _test_?" Hector asked incredulously, turning back to face Farina.

The elder sister cleared her throat delicately. "Well…Fiora and I were quite uneasy, you understand, handing off our little sister to such a brash, hot-headed man…"

"You…" Hector seethed, rising to his feet.

"Eventually the two of us came up with the idea that we could use this masquerade ball to see how kind you were to her…Fiora was half-joking, at first, but I finally persuaded her to let me dress up as Florina. When she saw that this could potentially resolve all of our doubts once and for all, she let me talk _Florina_ into it…"

Hector was advancing menacingly towards the imposter, and although Farina looked a bit nervous, she did not back down.

"So we decided that for the first half of the ball, I would pretend to be her…I just wore her costume and faked a stutter and ran up here whenever you asked me a question and I had to ask her how to respond…"

"And you wanted to see how I treat her, is that it? That was your little test?" Hector tore off his royal blue mask so that he might glare at Farina with more intensity. "So how did I do, eh?"

In response, Farina reached out and took his hand, holding it gently and protectively: a mimicry of how he must have been holding her hand the entire evening.

"You did alright, you big oaf," she whispered, her lips slowly pulling into a smile. "Actually…I'm happy that you want to marry her. You'll take good care of her."

"Yeah, I will," Hector affirmed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with pride at the compliment.

"Yeah. You will. Or I will end your miserable life."

Hector only smirked at the threat and tossed his mask down at her feet. "Whatever you say, Farina. Now…if you don't mind…go away. Florina and I need to talk."

"So _that's _what you youngsters call it these days," Farina muttered, slipping out of the room. Hector slammed the door behind her. He stood there for a long minute, his palm pressed flat against the cool wood of the door, before he ventured to turn and look at his bride-to-be.

Oh sweet Elimine, she was crying.

"I-I'm…I'm so sorry, Hector," she said miserably, tears streaming from her eyes. Her fair face was turning red and blotchy, and Ostia's ruler was seized with worry.

"Uh, it's fine," he said uneasily. "Really. Please don't cry."

"You were angry…I d-deceived you—I didn't mean to! I'm so sorry! I must have hurt your feelings…oh, w-what must you think of me?"

"I think your sisters are mad," Hector told her, folding his arms. "But no harm was done…please, Florina…"

His words did little to assuage her weeping. She hid her face in her hands, her shoulders continued to shake. Hector sighed, crossed over to her, and sat down gingerly on the edge of her bed.

"I'm not mad at you. Honestly. It's okay."

It would have been _so _much easier to calm her down if Hector could touch her arm or stroke her face or pet her hair, he was sure of it…but, of course, he really wasn't able to do such a thing. His companionable presence seemed to be enough, however, for Florina soon gave a mighty sniffle and dried her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I…I shouldn't have listened to them," she admitted softly. "It's just…they were so worried about me. You know how stubborn they can be…they didn't believe that I would be alright, no matter how many times I tried to tell them how good you are to me…how strong and k-kind…"

She was steadily turning crimson. A swell of awed affection rose within Hector, quickly swamping him with warmth. He could feel himself grin. _She really thinks that about me?_

"So…" he ventured slowly, almost too happy to believe what he was hearing, "The fact that you've been hiding up here in your room all night…it's not because you don't want to be with me?"

"Oh, no!" Florina gasped. "N-not at all! L-Lord Hector, I…"

There it was—when she had spoken his name her voice had turned breathy, on the verge of squeaking or disappearing entirely, laden with fear…or was it something else? Hector could practically feel her words graze lightly by his ear, tickling him.

"I…I l-love you, Lord Hector!"

And with that, she burst into tears again. Hector gave a start.

"Hey…h-hey, don't cry! I love you too, okay? No matter what your stupid sisters say or do!"

"Stupid?!" Farina's voice demanded angrily from outside the door. Hector was about to shout back a retort about a certain witch that had ruined one evening enough, but he was suddenly struck speechless as Florina swiftly reached out and wound her arms around his neck. Her embrace was timid, and he could feel her stiffen as he snaked his arms around her in turn…but she had started it, so Hector knew that she didn't really mind. He couldn't exactly say that he could feel her body against his own—it was more like the thin, pale nightgown she wore sort-of brushed up against his doublet—but he was happy beyond words to have her in his arms.

"Come back down with me?" he breathed as she pulled away. She bit her lip in thought, and Hector took that opportunity to touch the side of her face. Her cheek was soft, albeit cold and damp due to her tears…his hand slid up until he could bury it in her thick, fluffy hair. He was making her shiver, but he no longer cared.

"I-I'd like that," she whispered in response to his question. "I think."

"Good." Hector chuckled, before twisting around and roaring, "Farina! My Florina wants her costume back!"

Farina had burst back into the room, her eyes ablaze. "_Your _Florina?"

"Yeah, that's what I said! Switch clothes; I'll be outside."

Hector brushed past the Pegasus rider and could feel her shudder with anger. He picked up his mask and shut the door behind him. Once he was outside, he leaned against the corridor's wall, folding his arms, grateful for their cold and sturdy presence as it seeped through the back of his costume. After what seemed like forever, the door opened again and a slight, masked woman dressed in pure white came out. Hector reached out and took her hand, instantly remembering the tremor of the little fingers in his own. He squeezed it—she did not squeeze back, although the lips beneath her snowy mask smiled weakly. Hector grinned.

Then again, he figured that he had to know for sure.

Before she could stop him, he pulled off her glove and let his tongue glide across the velvety skin of the inside of her wrist.

She screamed loud enough to wake the dead, and Hector laughed harder than he had in a long time. "It's good to have you back!"

"HECTOR!" yelled Farina, sticking her head out of Florina's room. "What in Elimine's name was _that_?!"

"L-L-Lord H-H-H-Hec…" Florina was stuttering too badly to even say his name.

Hector shrugged. "I'm allowed to have my tests too, aren't I?"

Before Farina could retort, he had gently taken Florina by the fingertips and led her down the hallway. He was apologizing for his sudden advance by the time they had reached the ballroom, and Florina was actually _giggling_.

"Do you want to get something to drink before we dance?" Hector asked her, and when she nodded he led her over to the table. He was reluctant to let go of her hand, because it made him feel so much more complete to have it resting in his own…but he had to do it, to pour her a drink. He was just about to hand the slippery glass to her when he suddenly remembered Eric of Laus's little stunt.

"Uh…maybe you should drink something else," he said, quickly withdrawing his hand.

Florina cocked her head. "Is…is there a problem, my lord?"

"You probably won't like this," Hector muttered.

Florina fidgeted, toying with her own fingers. "Ah, alright then…I suppose I'll just go get some punch…"

"That's a good idea," Hector told her with a smile. He was contemplating drinking the wine himself, seeing as he didn't want it to go to waste…but right before he could lift it to his mouth, Lyndis suddenly appeared, plucked it from his hand, and took a large swallow.

"Lyn?" cried Hector and Florina at the same time. Ostia's lord was the one to continue: "What are you doing here?"

"He doesn't want to dance with me," said Lyndis bleakly, grimacing at the taste of the wine. There was no name mentioned, no preamble given…Hector knew, and she knew that he did.

He felt his face soften. "Oh…Lyn, I'm sorry…do you—"

Before he could ask if she wanted him to go rough up that sorry excuse of a knight for her, Lyn was summoned away by another noble. She shot Hector a brave smile before venturing off to mingle with the more politically-minded, gone with a swish of her dark brown skirts.

"What's going on?" Florina asked quietly, her fingers brushing his arm in an extremely brief and feather-like touch.

"The same thing that always goes on," Hector retorted. "She loses a dance and I lose my drink."

Florina covered her mouth as she watched Lyn retreat, but her eyes shone so brightly that it was clear that she was grinning. "She _did _steal your wine, didn't she?"

"It doesn't really matter," Hector sighed. He lowered his face until it hovered a mere inch above hers, teasingly whispering, "The only way I would want to taste it would be if it came from your lips, anyway."

"Oh!" Florina's gasp hit his face, a puff of warm breath. "L-Lord Hector, I—"

"Calm down," Hector laughed. "You know that I'll wait until you're ready, don't you?"

"Y-yes…" She was bright red. "And…you know that I'll be r-ready someday, right?"

"I know," he whispered. He leaned down to kiss her cheek…

…She turned her head at the last moment so that his lips touched her own. Hector's eyes flew widened; he saw that she had closed her own. After a second that felt like it could have been much longer, Hector pressed more firmly into the light kiss, holding the back of Florina's head to keep it in place. He could feel her inhale sharply as he did so, but she offered no further protest.

Hector decided that he shouldn't push his luck by trying to deepen the kiss, but when he pulled away it was slowly and reluctantly. She looked utterly shocked at her own daring behavior. Her eyes fluttered open but didn't focus, she was trembling like a leaf, and her face had turned a sickly pale color.

"Hey," Hector noted with joy, "you didn't scream!"

"N-no, I…I didn't…"

And with that, Florina fainted dead away into his arms. Hector rolled his eyes as he lifted her up, gathering her against his chest, and sighed heavily as he prepared to bring her back to her room. He had to admit, as tiresome as it was to court her, it did have its rewarding moments…such as the way that he had her entire frame nestled against him at the moment. Even if she didn't know it.

"Elimine," said Farina contemptuously when Hector finally reached Florina's room and lovingly set his fiancée down on her bed. "You tried to kiss her, didn't you?! You're an awful cad, for frightening her like that--!"

"Maybe," Hector interrupted. He removed Florina's mask and pushed a lock of flocculent lavender hair away from her eyes, smirking up at her sister all the while. "Or maybe I'm just _really _good at kissing."

Farina reached over and smacked the lord's cheek—something he figured he might deserve, for that kind of impudence. The blow stung. He knew that he'd have to be content with that, for the night: no dance with Florina, no wine, and a slap to the face. He could taste defeat.

Tracing Florina's own little face made him feel better, though.

* * *

 _A/N: So I think I could have done a better job with that. But I am extremely pressed for time, so alas—this is what we get. The rushed-ness. My apologies._

_Well…if you have any feedback, I'd absolutely love to hear it. Let's see if I can get out the last chapter in…what…four days? (Holy Cowbowsers, I am doomed. SO VERY DOOMED!) _


	5. Boorish Bacchanalia

_A/N: Well, as I predicted, I did not make the deadline. I can't really say I'm disappointed in myself, though, because there was absolutely no way that I would have been able to accomplish this in the first place—a fact that is apparent now that it's over. Mondays through Thursdays I have school, marching band, clubs, orchestra, church activities, and homework; Fridays are mandatory football games; Saturdays are band competitions that last until 3 AM the next day; Sundays I go to church and do homework. If I'm lucky, I get to eat and sleep in between all of this. Every spare moment I had, I was writing this fic. I have given my very best effort. That is all I can say on the matter._

_The bright side is that I've had a total blast writing this, and that I'm pretty sure it's bettered me as an author. Even though this particular chapter did NOT want to get written. _

_Also. For the record, "bacchanal" is definitely one of the greatest words ever. YAY DRUNKEN ORGIES._

* * *

_**Sense: **__Taste_

_**Rating: **__T_

_**Paring: **__KentxLyn_

_**Boorish Bacchanalia**_

Kent was alone.

It was better that way.

He sighed deeply, allowing himself to lean upon his lance—it wasn't as if he was going to use it, this night, although he supposed one could never be too careful. He knew that he had to be _especially _careful, now that his brain was so fogged and his mouth felt so sour.

This was all Sain's fault…Kent shouldn't ever have trusted him—not with this. With his life, surely, but not with _this_--!

The Green Lance had come traipsing down the hallways to Kent's post earlier that night, a blur of…bright pink. Pink enough to burn Kent's eyes.

"Elimine preserve us," he had mumbled—under his breath of course, keeping the words in his mouth like hard tack that needed softening, unwilling to let such a sting reach even Sain's ears.

His incorrigible partner stopped in front of him, his face flushed with either excitement or drink—perhaps both. "Kent! _There_ you are, I've been looking for you all night! You should come and—oh, but my dear companion, where is your outfit?"

"I'm…wearing it," Kent replied bewilderedly, glancing down at his usual tan breeches and shirt. He wore decorative armor over that—light, sparse, and definitely not durable enough to protect him in the case of an attack. Kent always felt uncomfortable in the false security of dress armor, although he could find a wry smile at the realization that his dress armor was a rich, dark green…and that Sain's was red.

Unfortunately for Elibe, Sain had chosen to wear something other than his dress armor.

"No, not your outfit," groaned Sain. "I meant your _costume_! Where is it?"

Kent vaguely recalled the plain, beige mask he had earlier—which was currently left abandoned on his bedside table. "I am not attending the ball. Why would I wear a costume?"

Sain let out a theatrical gasp—it was a wonder that all the stale dust in the musty air didn't choke him with such a breath. "Not attending? Why ever not?"

"I'd rather be here," Kent told him softly. "I am on duty tonight."

"Why in the world would Caelin's general be put on duty during a social event?"

"I asked the marquess for permission."

"Is this because--?"

"I have no motive."

"Yes, well, while you're standing out here lacking in motive, she is dancing with men who have the power to take her away from you."

"Y-you don't know what you're talking about!" Kent shot his friend a glare that was sure to silence him. _How dare he…how _dare_ he talk about Lady Lyndis? As if I have any right to her? As if I want to have any right to her?_ His mouth had gone dry at the thought.

Beneath the vibrant, blushing, spun-sugar color of his mask, Sain's face fell. "B-but…oh, Kent, you at least have to come get a drink with me—"

"I am on duty," Kent retorted stiffly.

"All night?"

"All night."

"That's preposterous!" Sain threw an arm around Kent's shoulders. "Come on…we'll only be gone a moment."

"I am on duty!" Kent repeated forcefully.

"Then let me relieve you!" insisted Sain. "You should go get something. It'll be bracing. You're in for a long night of 'duty'."

The idea to take a break, though highly against Kent's principles, had been somewhat tempting. And yet, as he stared into Sain's eager face, he realized how very selfless his friend was being in offering to give up a part of his evening. For Kent's sake. The Crimson Shield couldn't accept such a gesture. He smiled gently at his partner and shook his head.

Sain sighed. "At least allow me to fetch you something?"

Kent's already-quivering stomach twisted at the thought of food, but he knew that if he didn't agree, Sain would never leave him alone. "…Alright. Thank you, my friend."

The pink-clad man clapped Kent on the shoulder was gone from view. Kent was left alone in the dim hallway, with nothing but his own mind for company.

_As if I could actually attend the ball with Lyndis there…as if I would have the courage to face her, to pretend I've never touched the lips beneath her mask…_

Sain had returned then, just as Kent was about to sleep deeper into a dangerous memory. The Green Lance had a pastry in one hand and a glass of wine in the other; Kent was forced to lean his lance against the wall to take the gifts from his friend.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Sain grinned. "Oh…think nothing of it, Kent."

Kent, though not much of a drinker, lifted his glass to his lips. One glass couldn't do any harm, he decided…and after all, such a thing was supposed to be good for you every now and again…

He had other, darker motives, but he did not want to admit them to himself.

Kent took a deep sip…and his mouth overflowed with an unexpected bitterness. It stung his tongue and burned his throat, forcing him to use all of his willpower to keep from spitting it back out.

"What is this?" he demanded of Sain, examining the dark liquid in his glass. "Straight liquor?!"

"Don't be silly, Kent," Sain sniffed.

Kent felt like his mouth had been singed. His tongue wanted to writhe from the sour aftertaste. "It's…disgusting!"

"You just aren't enough of a connoisseur to fully appreciate the subtle nuance of this brand—"

"Is everybody else in the ballroom actually drinking this?"

"Well, of course! It's, er, a drink for very fancy and refined people! Now, if you're going to keep being so stubborn, I might as well go back. Do try to enjoy your night."

Sain flounced away once more. Kent set his glass down on the floor with a grimace. The traces of the strange wine in the back of his throat made him try the pastry Sain had brought him. At first his teeth met only with the flaky, floury bread, but he bit harder until a tangy surge of raspberry welled up in his mouth. The tart sting of the fruit was a welcome relief.

The pastry disappeared, bite by bite, until it was no longer existent. Kent felt a twinge of despair. The problem with being alone and having blank silence cloud one's tongue was that one had so much more time to _think_. Kent didn't entirely trust himself to be alone with his thoughts, these days…already, this night alone, he had been forced to tear himself away from sweet, warm, _impudent_ reminiscings, only to promptly fall back into them a moment later. Sain's words hadn't helped matters.

A particularly haunting memory that was spinning around in his thoughts had occurred only a short while ago, earlier that evening. He had been walking down the corridor, on the way to his post…when, suddenly, the artfully engraved oaken door of Lyndis's chambers had opened, and the princess had poked her head outside. She gnawed her lip thoughtfully; her brow was creased with an anxiety he had never before seen in her. Her face had lightened immediately when she had spotted him, however.

"Oh, Kent!" she called, sounding relieved. "Could you help me with something, if you're not too busy?"

Kent had hurriedly assured her that he was _always _available to assist her, and Lyn had ducked back into her room with a smile—doubtlessly assuming that he would follow. He did, standing in the doorframe awkwardly, trying not to cast glances around her room. He had been there before, of course, since she never seemed to realize that men weren't supposed to follow a lady into her room if she needed something—even if it _was _only himself or Sain or Wallace—but it made Kent uneasy all the same.

"What do you need, milady?" he prodded her, eager to escape back to the cool hallway.

"Do you think you could close up the back of my dress?" Lyn asked him, somewhat helplessly. "There are nearly a hundred hooks that join together, but I just can't reach all of them…"

She had turned around so that he could see, and…oh, holy Elimine, could he _see!_ The pale, thin slip she would wear beneath the dress was visible, which should have scandalized Kent enough…but no, there was worse, _so _much worse: the low cut of the slip exposed the bare skin of her neck and back and shoulder blades. Kent's mind went blank, and he promptly forgot how to breathe.

"I-I-I…d-don't you have handmaids for this sort of thing?" Kent stuttered desperately, now trying to back himself out of this terrible predicament.

Lyn shrugged, gathering up loose tendrils of hair that escaped to brush her neck. "There was Mina, I suppose, but the maids are all supposedly having a party in the kitchen while the ball is going on…she was so excited about it that I let her go early. I thought that I could finish dressing by myself, but…I was wrong." Her voice dimmed at the end in a surly fashion, as she was obviously loath to admit that there was something she couldn't do. She was still dutifully holding her hair up, so that he could come dutifully fasten her dress…

…But, blast it all, this was a _complete _breach of duty!

"There must be someone else," Kent protested hoarsely. "_Anyone _else—"

"There _is _no one else," Lyn told him sharply, turning her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. Her gaze was all the more beautiful for its ferocity. With a sudden jolt, Kent realized why she was behaving so strangely: she was _nervous_. She had to go down and mingle with all of those nobles, very soon, and she still wasn't ready. "I had to call in the first person I knew from out of the hallway—which was you. And if you can't help me, I shall have to go downstairs without the dress on at all."

With a strangled noise of protest, Kent rushed to her side and grasped the back of her dress. He could feel his face and neck heating up. She might only have been teasing, but he did _not _find it funny!

"I've already fastened the first few at the bottom," Lyn said helpfully. "I just need you to get the middle of my back, if you would…"

Kent let his gaze slide down to the small of her back to see that she had indeed done up the bottom of her dress—incorrectly.

"My lady, it…it actually seems as if you matched up the hooks out of order…"

"Did I?" Lyn stomped her foot impatiently and breathed a curse that Kent was startled to discover she knew. "I'm sorry…would you mind redoing those too, then?"

_B-but…that means unhooking her dress! _Kent froze so completely that he could have passed for a gargoyle on the ramparts of a cathedral.

"…Kent?" Lyn asked softly, after a long moment of silence stretched between them.

"Oh! R-right…my apologies…" Kent swallowed hard and forced his fingers to undo the lower fastenings, exposing even more of her nearly sheer shift, chastising himself all the while. _Stop thinking that way. It isn't…she just needs help. You're the only one who _can _help. Since you're here. Elimine…she's…I can't stand it. She's too beautiful. She doesn't even know it._

Kent had fixed the bottom hooks and was halfway up, by this point—he had passed the top of her slip, and his knuckles brushed against the smooth skin of her back with every move he made. He shivered, leaning closer to her to examine the tiny metal hooks that he was linking together…the process was a lot harder than it seemed…

Her neck was but a breath away, long and slender and the soft, warm hue of caramel. Kent wondered if it would taste that way, as well. It was entirely possible for him to draw closer still, to put his mouth against that neck, to savor her skin as his lips worked upon it, to positively _imbibe _himself…

_Gods above, I should be sent to a realm of fire after I die! _

"Done!" Kent exclaimed weakly, connecting the very top hook of her dress and then quickly stepping back as if her presence could thrust a lance through his middle. He turned away so that she would not see his blush, his face, his shameful thoughts--!

"Thank you, Kent," Lyn told him, apparently noticing nothing at all.

"Th-think nothing of it," the knight insisted, still unable to look at her. Curse it all…that maid should have been there, should have had more presence of mind, should have spared him from this situation. "You…you are far too kind, milady, allowing your servant to run off like that…"

"She is just a girl," Lyn interrupted. "And…I didn't want to deny her this night. Dreams come to her easily, which is rare in people nowadays…" Kent chanced a glance in Lyn's direction to find that her eyes had softened. "She likes to pretend she'll find herself a prince. She tells me that I am…lucky. Because someday I will have one."

Kent couldn't stop himself; the dry and bitter words escaped him before he could swallow them up again: "Of course you shall have a prince someday."

Lyn's hand was suddenly upon his shoulder, forcing him to finally meet her fiery gaze. "I don't want a prince, Kent."

Once, he might have asked her what she _did _want—but not now. Now he tried his best to keep his thoughts and his words to himself. Throughout the war they had always been close…and then _that _had happened. Standing before the Dragon's Gate, after Nergal's defeat, Kent had…made a terrible mistake. Something changed, after that day--now their moments together were brief and awkward, instead of filled with their usual strong camaraderie.

Every time Kent left her presence, feeling strangely hollow, he had been forced to remember: Lyn running for him, stumbling under the weight of her wounds, her skin red and raw with burns and the ends of her dark hair singed. The final battle was over. Kent had instantly forgotten all of his own injuries—he just opened his arms to her as she rushed for him, closing them around her in a tight embrace. There was nothing indecent about this, he told himself as he stroked her sweat-soaked hair, nothing at all. He was her servant, her vassal, her _friend_, and he should be allowed to hold her and promise her that everything was alright now, since Nergal was dead and the dragons were slain and the war could end. It was the strangest, swiftest moment in time: Lyn running towards him, Lyn meeting his embrace…

Lyn's lips pressed suddenly against his own.

Kent had frozen for a fraction of a second at that strange contact, but before he knew it he was responding in kind: tasting the salt on her lips and trailing his hands down her back. She went completely limp in his arms, her lips parting weakly, and Kent deepened the kiss to find that the tang of salt had deepened as well—now it was darker, thick and sharp, like liquid copper…

Oh, Elimine, his mouth was filling with _blood._

Kent quickly pulled away, without relinquishing his grip on Lyn—which was a good thing, too, considering that she certainly would have fallen. She had slipped out of consciousness, her eyes rolled back into her head, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

Kent's face flamed, his insides screamed with panic. She had been hurt, dying, running to him for help…and he had _kissed _her? His liege lady?! Surely she had merely stumbled when running for him, and her lips had touched his accidentally! _How _could he have reacted in such a manner?

He had carried her to the healer's tent, ignoring Serra saying that he'd brought her just in time and that he was a wonderful vassal—unlike Erk—and that was he quite sure that he was feeling alright, because he looked so very flushed? Normally, Kent would have stayed with Lyndis until she could wake and prove to him that she was alright, whether it took moments or hours…yet this time, he could not. He left the tent immediately, knowing that he would be unable to face her when she came to, still tasting the awful, metallic tang of her blood.

She had started to look at him differently, after that day, in a shy manner that he knew was quite unlike her. She pretended like nothing was wrong, like nothing had changed, and he went along with it. They had never spoken of that moment…that wonderful, terrible moment that kept replaying in Kent's head as he stood there in the corridor on the night of the masquerade, doing his duty as a guard. The irony of the situation was painful. He had wanted to work so that he would not have to see her, so that he might keep his mind _off _of her, and yet…

_Blast. _He took a swig of his wine in desperation, forcing the fire down his throat and ignoring the acidic taste. It wasn't to be sipped like normal wine, Kent knew that already—no, it had to be swallowed fast, like ale. He had to stop thinking about her, had to stop, had to stop…

Thirty minutes and an empty glass later, Kent began to feel quite peculiar. He wasn't quite so miserable…his body began to tingle…his head was buzzing…and he had _no _idea what was going on.

_What is happening to me? _Kent wondered—even his thoughts were sluggish. _I can't focus correctly…I can't think straight…it was only one glass of wine, not even a big glass, so it's not as if I…_He stopped then, struck with a horrifying thought. _What if…it wasn't wine?_

Sain! Gods above, the lout had done something to his drink! That was why the wine had tasted so awful—it _wasn't _wine, not anymore! Kent had a sinking feeling that he had really just gulped down something far more powerful.

"No, no, no," he moaned, clutching his head, leaning back against the stone wall. "This can't be…"

Yet as the minutes dragged on, and his body succumbed to the effects of the alcohol, Kent had to admit that he was drunk. _Drugged by the biggest scoundrel ever born…how very embarrassing…_

"Kent?" a voice asked softly, tearing him away from his furious thoughts. He knew that voice. Kent found his eyes widening in helpless terror as—of all people!—Lady Lyndis made her way down the hallway towards him. The dark dress she wore—the one he himself had helped her put on--rippled with every move she made, like sweet, melted chocolate. He could not see her eyes beneath her matching mask, but he knew that she was looking right at him—at his armor and his lance. "Kent, I thought you were going to be at the ball?"

"I had asked them to place me on duty this night," he replied, praying that she wouldn't notice his unseemly state of mind.

"Why would you do a thing like that?" she asked. She sounded almost…angry. Kent took a deep, nervous breath.

"Well, I-I would have felt bad attending something so frivolous in lieu of—"

"I'm attending," she retorted. "Are you calling me shallow, Kent? Since I am not making myself useful at the moment?"

"N-no! Of course not, milady! I would nev—um!"

Lyn moved swiftly, silencing him by placing a finger over his lips. Kent felt himself blush until it burned, as if he had swallowed a great amount of spice. She took her finger away, but only to give him leave to answer another question: "Has Sain come to relieve you at all?"

_Of course—if by 'relieve', you mean 'trick me in the foulest possible way'. _Kent swallowed hard. "Y-yes, milady…he came by earlier tonight, but I sent him away. He looked like he was having so much fun…I didn't want to deprive him…"

"When do you get to have your fun?" Lyn murmured. Her hands reached up—Kent watched her warily, holding his breath, until her fingertips touched his temples and traced their way down to the corners of his mouth. They lingered there. "Your face is going to be a mess of lines before you're Sain's age, you know."

Kent could have seized her hands right there, could have pressed them to his lips in a kiss that represented far more than servitude. He could have pulled her into his arms and—_No! _He slapped the drunken thoughts away, feeling himself tremble with longing and fear and self-loathing. "My lady—"

"Please," she whispered to him. Her hands trailed down further, until they were resting on his shoulders. "Come dance with me?"

Him? Dance with her? While _intoxicated_? Such a thing was nigh impossible; Kent would rather have died than attempted it. Stuttered excuses poured from his mouth: "B-but, I have no costume—"

"Decorative armor is dressy enough. You'll be fine."

"I've left my mask—"

"We can go get it. It won't take long."

"I have to man my post—"

"Do you honestly believe that someone is going to attack us?"

Kent was supposed to tell her that yes, he _did _believe that, and he had to be alert for the sake of her safety. That was what he _wanted _to say. But the wine made him blunt, and what poured from his mouth was a "No."

Lyn grinned up at him. "You see? Now, come on, let's—"

She had grabbed his hand to pull him along, but Kent had jerked away before she could see him stumble. "No! No…my lady…I can't."

"Why ever not?" Lyn demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

Kent could only hang his head. _Because I can't be with you when I am like this…it's so hard to stay in-control of myself right now…I fear what I would say, what I would _do…

"…Oh" she said quietly, after a long moment of silence. "I think I understand. You…don't want to dance with me."

It was not a question. Her voice was soft and small and…somewhat _sad. _Kent didn't want to hurt her…but he couldn't have her see him drunk, feel him pull her against him and refuse to let her go. He had to get her away from him—it was for the best.

"No," Kent answered in a whisper, shutting his eyes tightly. "I don't."

"I see," said Lyn softly, resignedly. "Forgive me for bothering you."

She turned her back on him and left. Kent tried to suppress the guilt he felt, swelling up within him like rancid bile. _What else was I to do—go along with her? Show her how superbly incapacitated I am? She shouldn't dance with a drunk, lowborn knight. _Kent slipped back into his unruly thoughts, imagining Lyn's lips beneath another man's…any suitor of hers would know only sugar or pepper or mint. He would never know blood.

Kent was still there now, an hour later: spending his night in the dim, musty hallway, full of recent memories of Sain and too-strong wine and Lyn's unfastened dress and a clumsy kiss from long ago and the hurt in her voice when he revoked her invitation for a dance. He stood in a reverie, with a muddy head and a fuzzy tongue, deaf to the faint noise of the ball.

Until somebody screamed, that is.

Kent gave a start. Instinct propelled him into the ballroom, stumbling slightly on unsteady legs, and he was instantly assaulted with the cloying scent of perfume. It seemed to gather in his mouth and glide down his throat, making him want to choke. He looked around wildly for the source of the scream.

That's when he spotted a figure in a dingy green costume, collapsed on the floor. A skittish, gossiping crowd had gathered around, seeming as tipsy as Kent felt. No one made a move to help the unconscious man—some looked as if they would fall over if they attempted to bend down. Women fanned themselves, swaying like flowers in the breeze, and surely one of them had been the source of the cry that Kent had heard. Three people stood on the middle of this crowd—a slender man in purple, a taller man in royal blue, and a damsel in black.

"…_Someone _had far too much to drink," the man in purple muttered.

"Eliwood, please say that you're not—oh, Elimine, the _pity_," groaned the man beside him. "You're seriously going to pity _Eric_?"

"Hector, he tried to apologize. He doesn't want to duel anyone…in fact, I suspect that he might already have been drinking when he insulted Ninian." Lord Eliwood reached for the hand of the black-clad woman beside him and squeezed it gently.

"So you're just going to let him off the hook?" Hector demanded.

"He apologized…"

"An apology when you're drunk enough to pass out hardly counts!"

"Oh, Lord Hector," pleaded Ninian, "don't trouble yourself with this. I…I do not want milord Eliwood to duel at all. He hates to fight…and I would worry for him…"

"You think he'd get hurt fighting _this _one?" Hector snorted and nudged Eric with the toe of his boot.

"Hector, don't kick him. You should know better than that…we need to help him out of here." Lord Eliwood bent down beside Eric, less-than-gracefully. "Honestly, such violence—have you been drinking too much, as well?"

"I haven't had anything at _all_!" Lord Hector snapped. "Lyn ran off with my drink. And you're a fine one to talk—look how red your face is!"

"Please. I only had one glass, and that was but a moment ago. Now, come help me with him, will you?"

Hector grudgingly conceded, and between the two men they were able to carry Eric to a table and leave him in a chair. Kent felt a thrill of fear as he watched Lord Eliwood—he, too, had only had "one glass", and look where it had gotten _him_! And Lady Lyndis…_Lady Lyndis took Lord Hector's drink! _

"Lord Hector!" Kent found himself croaking, although he knew the young lord was too far away to hear him. He made his way towards Ostia's marquess after spending a moment trying to find his balance. "Lord Hector, I…please…"

"Ah, Sir Kent!" said Eliwood as the knight finally reached them. "Have you decided to attend tonight's event? We had hoped you would, but Lyndis said that…Sir Kent, is everything alright?"

Although Marquess Pherae's words were as polite and eloquent as always, there was no mistaking the certain unsteadiness in the young lord's voice. Kent knew that Lord Hector would be his only hope: _someone _had to keep an eye on Lyndis, to make sure she was alright in the midst of such an absolute revelry…Kent could not do it now, nor would Lord Eliwood be able to, and there was _no _way that he could trust Sain…

"I request an audience with Lord Hector," said Kent, praying that his voice didn't slur, that his posture didn't waver.

Hector traded glances with Eliwood. The latter smiled a farewell and went off to join his wife, while the Hector himself nodded to Kent in a jerky greeting.

"My lord," Kent pleaded, "I must ask a boon of you."

Hector raised an eyebrow. "What's going on, Kent? You're not looking so good."

"I have been having a…difficult night," Kent admitted.

"Maybe it wouldn't be going so rough if you had agreed to dance with her." Hector scowled and folded his arms. Kent gave a start.

"H-how did you--?"

"Well, it's the reason I haven't had a chance to drink anything myself, tonight," Hector replied impatiently. "Now, what do you need?"

"My lord, I have cause to believe that Lady Lyndis will need some looking-after, tonight."

"You're worried for her?"

"Of course!" Kent quickly covered his mouth with a hand, trying to take back his outburst, but it was too late. He took a deep breath and began again. "I mean…I have come across a drink that was tampered with. I just believe that someone should supervise her, in case—"

"And you can't do it yourself because that tampered drink was your own?" asked Hector with a smirk.

Kent bowed his head, mumbling, "I am unable to perform my duty, tonight."

Hector nodded, thinking, and then began to walk, leaving Kent room to fall into step beside him. "Drunk, eh? I have to say, I never thought I'd see _you_, of all people, like this." He shot Kent a sideways glance. "I think I know who strengthened your drink, though…I'm sorry. I saw Eric of Laus adding to the wine, but I wasn't fast enough to stop him before--"

"Lord Eric?" Kent asked, now sufficiently confused. "But…I thought…I was sure that Sain had done something to it!"

"Sain?" asked an incredulous voice. Nearby, a young man in grey and his cream-costumed partner had stopped their dance. The boy pulled off his bland mask, and Kent dimly recognized him as Erk. "That can't be right—_Matthew _put something stronger in the wine, Priscilla and I saw him do it!"

"Matthew?" Hector growled furiously. "_What _is going on?"

A man in ebony silk seemed to materialize out of nowhere next to his lord—Kent blinked--and asked, "…What if I told you the cleric made me do it?"

"_Matthew_!" roared Hector, but the thief was gone just as quickly as he had appeared.

Ostia's lord raked a hand through his hair, but shook his head and continued to walk, leaving Kent to follow him. Hector led him to the table covered in sweets and pressed a pastry into his hand.

"Alright, so it looks like a _lot _of people have been tampering with the wine. Maybe eating something will make you feel better?"

"I have heard that rumor," Kent admitted. "Does it…actually work?"

Hector smirked. "It hasn't for me. But who knows?"

Kent gulped. Hector walked the knight over to the doors leading out into the hallway.

"…Don't worry," the marquess said gruffly. "I'll look after her for you, alright? I'll know what's best."

"Thank you, Lord Hector," Kent whispered. He started to bow, but Hector put a strong hand on his shoulder and forced him to stop.

"Hey, you wouldn't want to fall over. Although I suppose you can hold your drink better than, say, Eliwood…oh, St. Elimine, he's not supposed to prove my point!"

Hector was looking over at the floor of wildly-spinning dancers. Kent followed his gaze to find that Lord Eliwood was among them, but standing still, holding his wife in his arms. Ninian fell weakly against Eliwood as he dipped his head down and kissed her neck with obvious yearning. Kent blushed at witnessing a moment that should have been private—and _would _have been, under normal circumstances. Apparently Lord Eliwood was now also under the sway of the thrice-poisoned drink.

"…So, good luck with that pastry," Hector muttered, and Kent smiled weakly before making his way back to his post. He bit into the sweet he held in his hand, expecting a rush of tangy raspberry, as before…but no. Something different spilled into his mouth, this time: crisp and sweet, with a hint of cinnamon. _Apple? _

Kent dutifully ate the pastry as he walked back to the corridor where he was stationed. However, as the moments passed, his legs did not feel any steadier and his head did not seem any clearer. He sighed heavily. Time dragged on so slowly...and Elimine, was he dizzy…beneath even the sugary zing of apple, his tongue felt thick and stale with alcohol. And blood, always blood. Kent leaned his spinning head back against the cold wall of the corridor.

"…Kent," a voice said quietly.

The knight's eyes opened somewhat sluggishly, but his heart began to pound when he realized who was approaching him.

"L-lady Lyndis? What are you doing here?"

"I…Hector told me that I would find you here, and I…" She faltered, for just a moment—posture, words, everything. "I've come to apologize."

"Apologize?" Kent asked, rather uneasily—she had already reached him, but was drawing closer still. "F-for what?"

"I was so thoughtless," she whispered. "I never realized that what I did would hurt our friendship…"

She stumbled suddenly, with an uncharacteristic clumsiness. Kent himself was too clumsy to catch her properly—she fell against him, pressing him back against the wall. He sighed and rested his cheek on her hair without really realizing it. She didn't seem to realize, either.

"What do you mean?" he mumbled. "What did you do that hurt our friendship?" _That was my fault, Lyndis, not yours…_

"That day, I…" She hesitated for a moment, before her trembling fingers found the buckles of his breastplate. He didn't know what do to, so he did not act; the green armor plate clattered to the floor as Lyn leaned weakly against his chest. She had still made no move to back away. Kent couldn't help but wonder why. It was as unlike her to cling as it was unlike him to hold her this way…

_Oh, Elimine! She's drunk, as well!_

No, no. This wouldn't do. Kent knew that he had to get her to her room, to someplace quiet—she couldn't return to the ball. What if the more sober nobles saw her this way? What if she fell and there was no one to catch her? What if another man was just as entranced by her, just as eager for the taste of her? Kent shuddered at the thought.

"Lady Lyndis," he murmured, "you…must be tired. Come, I'll escort you to—"

Lyn tightened her hold on him, ignoring her words, looking up into his eyes—though Kent found her own gaze hard to read through his cloudy vision, through the dark holes in her mask.

"I'm sorry for kissing you, Kent, the day the war ended!" she blurted out.

It took a long moment for Kent to process what she said…but when he did, he almost lost his balance yet again. "What?! B-but you didn't! _I _kissed _you_!"

"I just threw myself at you with no precedence—"

"You were wounded—"

"You stiffened up—"

"Limp in my arms—"

"Tasted like ash and smoke and—"

"Blood, Lady Lyndis, my mouth filled with—"

"But when I woke, there was nobody there—"

"Wounded, and all I could think about was _kissing _you—"

"You hadn't stayed, you wouldn't look at me—"

"I couldn't bear it, the aftertaste never went away—"

"I'm sorry!"

"Forgive me!"

Both of them broke off, out of breath. Kent was grasping her arms tightly, now, she still had a hold on his shirt. He had been babbling like an absolute idiot, his mouth was completely out of control…and he did not care.

"You…" he whispered fervently, "you…kissed me first? Things did not grow awkward between us because I had stepped out of line?"

Lyn let out a loud, almost hysterical laugh of relief. "And you—you didn't reject me? I never remembered the end of the kiss, I had lost consciousness…it _was _due to a loss of blood, Serra told me later. I…I woke up that night, and I reached out for somebody I knew…like that time in Bern, when I was almost killed by a wyvern knight, remember? Yours was the first face I saw when I was healed enough to open my eyes. But…that night, you were not there. And I thought…it was because I had been so forward, I had frightened you…I wondered what you must have thought of me. I was ashamed."

"_You _were ashamed?" Kent found that once he began laughing, he simply could not stop. "Milady…that's…I…"

She smiled up at him. "I'm so glad that this was all a misunderstanding."

"I agree!" Kent still couldn't suppress the humor of the situation. "To think, we—"

He was promptly cut off as Lyn pulled herself closer and kissed him in one fluid motion. Kent's muscles were too loose for him to stiffen, this time. Her body fit well in his embrace, her soft lips carried traces of the apple pastries—sweet and laced with the bite of cinnamon.

"This isn't right," he murmured, an automatic response, when she pulled away.

"I don't care." She kissed him again. Ripe, red, succulent apples…Kent suddenly jerked away.

"No…Lady Lyndis, we…we're not thinking clearly."

"It doesn't matter." Her fingers toyed with his collar, her lips brushed his jaw.

"No," he repeated firmly, putting his hands on her shoulders and steering her back a step. "My lady, we can't…not now. Not like this."

"Why not?" she sulked.

His fingers tightened on her shoulders, but he turned his face away. "I…I don't want to kiss you when I'm drunk. It's not right."

"I don't think I'm entirely in my right mind, either," she pointed out, sidling back up to him. Her next kiss was firmer, deeper, showing Kent the now-familiar spice of apples and the sugary crust of the pastry they had come in and…the wine, the dastardly drink that turned knights like him into beasts intent only on devouring warm, stumbling, _lovely _women…

"No!" he cried, a third time. He untangled his arms from around her and staggered a few steps away. She tore off her mask to stare at him like a child that had been denied a sweet.

"What's the matter?" she asked him, her green eyes as dark and glazed as his common sense felt.

"You taste like the wine," Kent told her hoarsely.

She put her hands on her hips. "So do you."

"But that's not what I would drink, usually!" he insisted. "Nor what you would drink! It's…_wrong_, what we're feeling in this kiss. We're not being sensible. That's why we need to stop—this isn't _us_."

She frowned and slowly moved towards him again. Kent felt himself wobble, fearing another advance, but she merely wound her arms around his neck in a snug embrace.

"I've always loved you," she mumbled. "I think this is why."

Normally, he would not have been able to bring himself to say the words—this night, they spilled out of their own accord: "Lady Lyndis…I love you, too." Kent made himself a mental note to thank Sain for his horrible, horrible prank. Someday. After the scoundrel had completed twelve thousand lance thrusts.

Lyn laughed slightly. "I'm so glad…they wouldn't like us kissing here in Lycia, you know. I don't think they'd mind in Sacae, though."

"Sacae?"

"Yes, I think I'll go back there…now you can come with me! That'll be great!"

"_Go back?!_" Kent stared down at her in horror. "Why would you think of going back?"

"I'm not thinking, I'm _going_!"

"No, Lady Lyndis, surely that is the wine speaking--!"

"There is no wine in Sacae," she whispered, tilting her head up so that her lips brushed slightly against his own. "Think about it…nothing so strange to taste, nothing than can be altered to make us act this way. We can just be ourselves. And I can give you the _real _kiss you said you wanted."

Kent felt himself flush. "Well, I-I don't think I ever actually said—"

Lyn's head plopped down on his chest, interrupting him. He bit his lip as he peered down at her.

"…Lady Lyndis?"

"I'm sleepy," she murmured. "Come…come down…"

She tugged on his shirt, sagging suddenly in his arms, and Kent was forced to sink to the floor with her, lest he dropped her. The next thing he knew, he was sitting against the wall with Lyn cradled in his arms, using his shoulder as a pillow.

"Stand back up, my lady," he urged her softly. "We should get you to your bed."

"But you can't follow me there," she retorted, snuggling deeper into his embrace.

_Actually, I think I could..._

Dear Elimine, that wasn't him, that was the alcohol. Of course. Absolutely. No doubt about it.

…But just in case, Kent decided that he and Lyn should probably just stay there in the cold, austere hallway, rather than risk the soft darkness of her chamber. She was probably too tired to make it up to her rooms, anyway, and he certainly wasn't in any state to carry her.

"I shan't believe that this night even really happened, when I wake," Kent admitted, the taste of wine and apples still lingering in his mouth, taking away the sourness that had been there before. He was starting to feel rather drowsy himself as he absentmindedly stroked her perfumed hair.

"I'll be your proof, then." Lyn told him, shifting slightly. "You'll wake with me in your arms…"

"I'll…I'll panic. What if I don't remember why we were here, or what we were doing, or--?"

"I'll remind you." Lyn kissed him again, lightly, and Kent let his weary eyes close. He could no longer see her face, her hair, the hallway…he could hear her breathing, but the soft noise soon blurred and died away, fading with the exotic, fruity scent of her perfume, leaving him with only the taste of her lips…and then even that fled, and there was nothing at all, and Kent slept.

* * *

_A/N: Are you ready for a huge Author's Note? _

_Well, I've never been drunk, so I have NO idea whether or not I pulled off the PoV of a chivalric and rather OCD dude being smashed. Of course, I'm not sure if many of you readers could enlighten me about that experience, so…xD. I figured I'd just keep him essentially Kent…but with poor coordination and less self-control in actions, at least, if not in thoughts. (And yes, Lyn is indeed a total lightweight.) _

_Like I said before, this chapter fought me. I really hope that it wasn't too confusing, what with Kent's memories at the beginning leading up to the present moment…that gave me a LOT of grief. This wasn't as fun as the rest, probably because Kent's a better angster than the rest of the characters. This tone, too, seemed…rather dark, compared to the other chapters. Or maybe that's just a synesthesia color. I can't really tell._

_As to Lyn not having a problem with Kent fastening her dress? Well, it's not like he doesn't see more of her LEGS every day than he did of her back…I figure that them Saceans aren't as stiff as the Lycians about the human body. They probably don't get offended by something so natural—like Renaissance humanists vs. DOOM AND GLOOM Medieval theologians. Besides. Noble women back then all totally wore dresses with a bazillion tiny hooks, which meant that nobody could get dressed by themselves. Sucks for you, Lyn._

_Also. Apparently eating does NOT relieve the effects of alcohol. One of the reasons why that rumor came about is because eating a meal with alcohol means that you drink it more SLOWLY, giving it time to diffuse into your bloodstream, so it doesn't hit you all at once and turn you into a drunken spaz. Or so they say. (…Does anyone else find it kind-of funny that Hector, of all people, is the only one who ended up NOT being drunk? xD)_

_And now for Kent's colors! He wears dark green armor—trust, heaviness, concentration—although beneath that, he wears tan/beige/insert synonym: calm, boring, and a good base. :D _

_So, for all of you who have read this…thank you a hundred thousand million times! Words can't even describe how great you guys are, or how much your support has meant. Really--thank you._


End file.
